Auth uin i Ettelëai
by Spamberguesa
Summary: Translation: War of the Strangers. Sequel to Ettelëa. Millions of zombies are wandering Middle-Earth, darkness is on the way, Sauron potentially has a terrible new ally, and our assortment of strangers are trying like hell to keep up. There might, however, come a point where they no longer WANT to.
1. Tosaíonn Sé

In which shit gets real.

* * *

Perhaps Thranduil had been isolated in the Woodland Realm for too long, because Edoras, though noble of build and people, repelled him.

The interior of the halls themselves were comely enough, with pillars of wood carved in the fashion of the Rohirrim – less refined than that preferred by Elves, but not so heavy as Dwarven like. High windows let in the golden morning sunlight, hazed a little with motes of dust.

No, the main problem was the smell.

The smoke from the open fires was not unpleasant, but the entire place reeked of horse manure and sewage. Both were understandable, but it made them no more pleasant.

He glanced down at Lorna, and found that her expression mirrored his sentiments exactly. She was visibly struggling to school her expression into something neutral, but she was terrible at dissemination; what she felt was what you saw, no matter how much she tried to hide it.

"I know this sounds rude as hell, but we're not staying in here, are we?" she asked in English.

"No. We will pay our respects to Thengel, answer whatever questions we _can_ answer, and move on."

"Move on to _where_?"

That was a very good question. Their entire purpose in marching to Gondor had been rendered moot; Von Ratched had inadvertently caused even more damage than they'd feared he would. Minas Tirith was not safe, but they could not leave until they had found the wretched man's weapon. "When I have an answer," he said, "I will let you know."

"That's not remotely encouraging."

"Perhaps not, but it is the only answer I can give you."

King Thengel rose when they approached his throne. He was still a young man, tall for an Edain, blond and blue-eyed like most Rohirrim. There was curiosity in his eyes, for which Thranduil couldn't blame him; it was not often one wound up with an impromptu visit from Elven royalty, quite apart from the horde of walking dead outside. It was a wonder the man wasn't an utter wreck. The people of Rohan were famed for their stubbornness and strength of will, and in this it seemed to be serving him well.

"King Thranduil," he said, inclining his head. "Have you come with our other…guests…or is your visit coincidence?"

"Yes and no, King Thengel," Thranduil said. "They came not with us, but they are why we have come. I trust you have learned by now that they are not here to harm you."

"After the initial shock, yes," Thengel said dryly. "Who is your…companion?"

Thranduil glanced down at Lorna. He did not wonder at Thengel's hesitation; doubtless she looked downright bizarre beside him, this tiny Edain woman with several facial burns and a truly spectacular bruise on her chin, probably caused by the chaos in Minas Tirith. "You have not precisely caught her at her best, but this is my wife, Lorna Donovan."

"That's an understatement," she muttered in English. "Hi," she said in Westron. "Sorry about the…uh, everything. It's been a hell'v a day. Two days, actually."

Thengel had to visibly master his surprise. "Welcome, my Lady."

Lorna looked up at Thranduil. " _Am_ I a lady?"

"Technically, yes. You will have to forgive her lack of etiquette, King Thengel. She was raised by savages."

Her eyes narrowed. "I'll bite you," she warned. "Or even worse, I'll pop one'v these blisters on you."

"You are an utterly disgusting creature," he said dryly.

"And yet you married me."

"True. As I said, savages," he said. "We will not linger long, nor will your other guests. You will be left in peace soon enough."

"I will not lie to you, King Thranduil," Thengel said. "That will be something of a relief. I do not care how benevolent they may be – seeing a corpse ambling across the yard will never cease to be unsettling."

Oh, Thranduil _liked_ this one. Monarchs with a sense of humor were always easier to deal with, and a good deal more pleasant.

"We'll get them off your lawn. I really don't want to be rude or anything, but I'm about to fall asleep on my feet," Lorna said. "I'm going to go find the tents and pass out. You two do whatever it is kings do when they're together."

"Have Menelwen see to those burns first. We cannot afford to let them get infected." It went unspoken that that would all too easily happen in a place this unhygienic.

"I will. It was nice to meet you, King Thengel. I know my husband can be super creepy, but he won't eat you."

Thranduil glared at her. "No, but I might eat _you_ ," he said. "Not that you would make more than two bites."

She arched an eyebrow. "Promises, promises. I'm out."

"Like I said," Thranduil said, as she half-sauntered, half-staggered her way out, "savages. And you and I have much to discuss."

* * *

Beorn's house had not changed at all since Bilbo had seen it a year ago, which was oddly comforting, given how much everything else had.

Sméagol had wanted none of it, and had taken off Eru knew where. Bilbo couldn't precisely say he was sorry, either; Sharley might be able to keep Sméagol in line, but that still didn't make him a comfortable traveling companion.

It was certainly nice having real food again, after so many days of travel rations – Beorn brought out bread and honey and fruit, and plenty of all. Traveling meant a hobbit's appetite was never truly sated, and he managed two whole loves, six apples, and a full pint of mead.

Sharley watched him from the other end of the table, amusement in her mismatched eyes. She herself ate little, but then, she didn't exactly need to; the dead required no food or drink. "Where you put all?" she asked, in her halting Westron.

"A question I have wondered myself," Gandalf said. "Hobbit appetites are greater than that of any other race in Middle-Earth."

"Which is a good thing," Bilbo grumbled, "or I never would have managed to feed you _and_ thirteen Dwarves on no notice whatsoever."

"You rose to the occasion admirably," Gandalf intoned.

Sharley must have understood enough of that exchange, for she laughed. It was a hoarse, rusty sound that suggested she didn't do it very often. "Lucky he go with you," she said to Gandalf.

"Luck had nothing to do with it. I was quite certain he would come with us."

"I strongly doubt _that_ ," Bilbo said primly. "I very nearly didn't."

"Would end bad, no you," Sharley said.

"Very true," Gandalf said, packing his pipe.

She gave him a rather severe look. "No inside," she said. "Rude."

Bilbo burst out laughing, and Beorn let out a deep chuckle. Gandalf allowed himself to look sheepish, but Bilbo suspected it was all for show. He didn't think the wizard had ever felt sheepish in his life.

"Very well," he said. "Bilbo, would you care to join me on the porch?"

It wasn't merely a request, so Bilbo hopped down from the stool, carefully stepping around several white mice as he went.

The sun had set, leaving the sky like a mass of diamonds spilled across black velvet. It was still warm, the dry, sun-baked grass fragrant. Bilbo sat on the wood pile and packed his pipe.

"What did you and Sharley feel the other day?" he asked. "I know something happened, and that you both felt it. What's gone wrong now?"

"That is for her and I to worry about," the wizard said. "If we ensure you can complete your quest, it will be none of your concern. You have more than enough to be getting on with as it is."

That non-answer irritated Bilbo. "Perhaps I need not worry about it, but I would like to _know_ ," he groused. "I'll worry no matter what you tell me – and more, if all I have are guesses."

The old wizard's eyes were as bright as the glow of his pipe. "Something has arrived," he said. "Some _one_ , but we do not know where.

"Long ago, in another world – the world where Sharley was born – there was a man possessed of magic, who sought eternal life. He found it, after a fashion, and in the process killed nearly everyone else like him. He was locked away for a thousand years, but recently escaped, and is now at large in Middle-Earth. He would make a great and terribly ally for the Dark Lord, so Sharley and I intend to see to it that they never meet."

Bilbo had a feeling that was the dramatically simplified version of events, but it was enough. "Can you?" he asked. "Can you keep them apart?"

"We will not be the only ones attempting it, so yes, I believe we can. You have your task, Bilbo, and it is enough."

He wanted to ask what would happen if they met, but didn't actually want an answer. It couldn't be worse than his imagination, surely, but he still did not want to know.

* * *

Bard was hot, tired, and ill-tempered, and he knew he was not the only one.

The dead woman had warned that they needed to prepare for a siege, so prepare they did, with all the energy they had. It was too early for most harvests, but vegetables could be gathered and prepared, and lat enough that they could hunt without orphaning young creatures. He had been doing much of both, and was now half dead on his feet, too tired to even eat much supper.

Sigrid, Tilda, and Ratiri sat beside the cold fireplace, illuminated by several lamps. Even with the windows open, it was stifling; Bard was glad of his snug home on solid ground in the winter, but in summer he longed for his old, drafty house on the lake.

"You look unwell, Ratiri," he said. "Too much sun?"

"I showed him how to gut a deer," Sigrid said, mild amusement in her tone. "I think he is traumatized."

Bard winced. _That_ he could understand; he'd nearly been sick himself, the first time he'd seen such a thing. He'd often helped the fishermen in Lake-Town when the runs were large, but cleaning a fish was very different from gutting something as large as a deer. "I do not blame him" he said, pouring himself a large mug of ale. "I promise, Ratiri, the smoking of it is not nearly so terrible a thing."

"I hope not," Ratiri said. "Surgery is…different. Less disgusting." The word 'surgery' was in his own language, for Westron had no equivalent.

"Have a drink," Bard said.

"He's had four," Sigrid said, her amusement even more evident. "The butcher forced some brandy on him, and he had more whiskey at the pub. I think they all remembered their own experience, when they first witnessed butchery." Most of those in Dale had lived their lives on the lake; Bard had not be the only one totally unfamiliar with the practice.

"Is good to know I am not alone," Ratiri said. "I felt…fool?"

"Foolish," Sigrid said. "And if you were, so were we all. Father is right about the smoking – it is much easier, when the meat no longer looks like an animal."

"I hope so," Ratiri said. "I want rest before do that again."

* * *

The food stores in Minas Tirith were running low, and Von Ratched was contemplating kicking the extraneous people out. They had served their purpose as human shields, but now they were merely a burden. That contemplation was interrupted, however, by movement in Mordor. A worrying amount of movement.

Now that Sauron knew he was here, he didn't bother using the Palantír through an intermediary. He never used it for long, for fear of Sauron capturing his mind, but his brief visions filled him with anticipation and dread in equal measure.

Armies of orcs were massing behind the walls, obviously gearing for war, and _that_ was a thought he relished. That would be a true challenge, and he had few of those anymore.

The dread, however, came from Sauron himself. Unless Von Ratched was mistaken – and he rarely was – the Dark Lord was preparing to venture forth. And if _that_ was the case, Von Ratched and everyone else in Minas Tirith were well and truly fucked. Nazgûl he could – and did – handle, but _Sauron_? He wouldn't stand even a breath of a chance.

Never in all his calculations had he thought Sauron would actually leave Mordor. Whatever would draw him out now had to be compelling indeed, because lacking the Ring, he also lacked his full strength. He would be somewhat vulnerable to the higher powers of Middle-Earth, of whom Von Ratched, to his own irritation, was not.

Well. Everyone had to die someday, and at least being taken out by the Dark Lord would be a worthy death. Von Ratched could at least give him something to choke on.

* * *

Lorna was not a happy bunny.

The Elves had pitched their tents somewhat far from Meduseld, but the smell still carried, and because they had to haul water from a stream somewhat far away (nobody was about to trust the nearby wells), she couldn't have a proper bath. After Menelwen treated her burns, she had to content herself with a stand-up wash, which at least took care of the worst of the soot and sweat. When she had more energy, she'd go take a swim in the river, but for now she felt weak as a kitten, and still vaguely sick.

She really hoped they wouldn't be staying long. Even when she'd been homeless on Earth, she hadn't lived in this kind of filth. Dale was a paragon of cleanliness when compared to what she'd seen of Rohan so far. How anyone could live like that was beyond her comprehension, though she supposed it would be a lot easier if it was all you had ever known. Still, gross.

Once she'd dug the clean clothes from her pack, she put them on and all but collapsed onto the bunk. Hopefully a nap would help her feel less like three-day-old death.

 _Her dreams, unsurprisingly, were troubled. She was pursued by the shadowy figures of Nazgûl, but this time, all her efforts were in vain: they slaughtered both elk and Thranduil, and came at her with their razor-swords. Thankfully, before they could gut her, the dream shifted._

 _She was only thankful for a moment, however, for what it shifted to was a vision of unnerving clarity, not dreamlike in the least._

 _She stood on a snowy plane, ice crunching beneath her boots as she turned. The cold nearly froze her breath in her chest, tightening the skin of her face, creeping through her clothes as though they were made of tissue paper. It was night here, the sky massed with more stars than she had ever seen, the moon lighting up the snow nearly as bright as day._

 _To her left, though, was a giant…well,_ hole, _a roughly circular, vertical chasm of darkness that blotted out snow and stars alike. And from it emerged a figure that looked like a man – a man who actually looked much like a young Von Ratched._

 _He was every bit as stupidly tall, blond hair worn long over his collar, swathed in some kind of black coat or cloak. Somehow, his pale eyes managed to be even colder than Von Ratched's, twin chips of pale ice that mirrored the moonlight._

Thorvald, _she thought, because honestly, who else could it be? At least he couldn't possibly be near anything at all; nothing and no one could live for long in such a frozen wasteland._

 _That would, however, only buy them so much time. Moving anywhere fast in Middle-Earth wasn't exactly possible, but move he could, and would. She had to go back to Minas Tirith and bludgeon Von Ratched until he coughed up the weapon that could kill the fucker, and then she and Thranduil had to go wreck his day. Fatally. Provided that was even possible._

 _She knew that she and Von Ratched had managed it in the other timeline, but their circumstances had been very different. Whatever they did, fatal or not, they_ had _to stop him meeting up with Sauron. Should that happen, they might as well all slit their throats, and save either of those twats the trouble._

Lorna woke with a start, still sick and totally disoriented. It must be night, for Thranduil sat beside a large lamp, reading something. He looked up when she stirred, pale eyes concerned.

"We," she said, her voice sounding like she'd swallowed a pound of gravel, "are _fucked_."

* * *

Yes, yes you are. All of you. Well, all of you who aren't Sauron.

Title means "It begins" in Irish. Drop me a review and let me know what you think.


	2. Gluaiseacht

In which Lorna and Thranduil are them, Legolas hates his life, Katje's curse is once again useful, and Elrond has what is (for him) a fantastic idea.

* * *

The last thing in the world Thranduil wanted was to return to Minas Tirith, but he could hardly let Lorna go alone, no matter the danger to himself.

"I need to put some kind'v seal around your brain," she said, struggling to sit up. "I can't keep fixing it every time he fucks it up, and we sure as hell can't tell him he's actually cabable'v doing that. I don't even want to _know_ what he'd do with it."

Thranduil didn't, either. "We have no way of knowing if anything you do will work, Lorna," he said. "Not until we are near him. And if it goes wrong…" He never wanted to suffer that sickness, that _madness_ again – Von Ratched had given it to him simply by trying to touch his mind. The telepathy of the strangers did not at all mesh well with that of Elves, and in his madness he had very nearly killed Lorna – though he doubted she knew it, and hoped she never would.

"If it doesn't work, feel free to mind-rape him into oblivion," she said. "At least you could get the location'v that weapon without me having to rip his spleen out through his throat first," she added, wrapping the blanket around her shoulders.

"You have a truly warped sense of optimism," he said, shaking his head.

"Well, you know. Bright side, and all that, " she shrugged. "Meanwhile, I'm freezing. Get over here."

"How in Eru's name can you be cold?" he asked, setting aside his papers and joining her on the cot.

"I dreamt I was way in bloody fuck up north," she said, plastering herself against his side like a cat. "Hasn't left yet."

"I can see that. Come here, Dilthen Ettelëa." He pulled her onto his lap, blanket and all.

"You know someday you'll have to stop calling me Little _Stranger_ ," she said.

"No, I will not. I called you Ettelëa before I knew your name. You are the first of the strangers, and you are very little. Hence, Dilthen Ettelëa."

"Whatever you say, Drag Queen Barbie."

* * *

Sauron had intended to wipe out Minas Tirith on his way north, but the arrival of many of the dead from Rohan changed his mind. With them involved, it would take too much time; he would take care of the city upon his return. For he had seen a truly irksome thing about these alien dead: they were nigh on indestructible. Orcs would not be enough – he would have to see to them himself, and he had not the patience for it. Once he had this other stranger, he would deal with Minas Tirith and all it contained.

Would they attack his army, when it ventured forth? Perhaps. Let them – should they stand in his way, he would mow them down. Even without the Ring, he was more than capable. Sooner or later it would be found as well, but it was no matter of urgency.

Tomorrow they would leave the walls of Mordor, moving under cover of night. Any and all who tried to bar their way would not live long enough to regret it.

* * *

Galadriel was deeply troubled, and wished she had a way to communicate with Celeborn and Elrond that would not require weeks or months of travel.

She ought to return home, but did not think it right to abandon Legolas, who was truly ill-prepared for the duties he had taken on. Thranduil had not done well by him _there_. Even with the aid of Tauriel and Galion, he seemed ready to tear his hair out more than half the time.

His Council was certainly of little use. Now that his father was gone, certain members were trying to advance their own personal causes, and her presence was the only thing that had kept them from doing so openly. Yesterday, finally, the usually even-tempered Legolas had flown into a rage worthy of Thranduil, and disbanded the entire Council, save a few who were actually reliable.

"If you cannot be of use to me," he'd said, pale eyes blazing, "you serve no purpose, and I will waste time with you no longer. There is much to be done, and I cannot afford your petty squabbling."

Every single one of them had been taken aback, but some more than others – those who had seen him as an inferior replacement for his father. Legolas so rarely acted like a prince that it was easy to forget his _was_ one, but that had been very evident then. When driven to it, he was very much his father's son.

Now, though…now he sat in Thranduil's study, staring at the missive on his cluttered desk. Most of the former Council's petitions had been cleared away, but they'd been replaced by lists of supplies and weapons, along with half a dozen empty wine-cups that had left sticky rings on the wood.

"Walking dead," he said helplessly, head in his hands. "If Arandur had not been the one to send this, I would have thought it a joke. He said that some of them would speak with us, if we would have them."

"We must make preparation for the refugees from Esgaroth," Tauriel said from an armchair. She had a large book resting on her knees for an impromptu table, and was busily scribbling on a piece of parchment. "And work out how to feed them, should there really be a siege."

"What is this world coming to?" Legolas asked, of no one in particular. "Strange Edain are one thing – even Sharley and her daughter I could accept, but Arandur says there are two _million_ of these creatures now wandering around Middle-Earth. How can the Dwarves and Edain accept this so easily?"

"They are mortal," Galadriel said, crossing the floor to him. "If they were not adept at accepting change, they would die. They will do what does not come so easily to us."

"I certainly hope so," Legolas grumbled. "I wonder if Lord Celeborn and Lord Elrond have also received…visitors."

"I would be greatly surprised if they had not. If nothing else, the dead are fortification to our armies." One which, from the sound of it, they were going to need. "It could be worse," she said. "It could be Morgoth."

Legolas actually laughed. "True. If there had been two million walking dead in Middle-Earth then, perhaps _that_ war might have ended sooner. If nothing else, there might have been less loss of life."

Privately, Galadriel doubted that. Legolas, child of the Third Age that he was, really had no concept of what the Eldar of the First Age had been like. Many – including her own brothers – might well have wasted their energy fighting the dead. And it would have been even worse if the dead decided to fight back.

"What you must do now is decide where to direct them, if they will take directing," she said. "I would know more of this siege, and why it would be necessary." Thranduil might have an impressive stronghold, but Lothlórien's borders were protected by her magic, not stone walls. If they were to be laid siege to as well, it might behoove her to build some. She could defend against most things in Middle-Earth with Nenya, but there were now a multitude of things alien to this world running about. Once she had her information, and once she was certain Legolas felt no need to rely on her, it was time to return home.

* * *

Katje was in her element, even if she did still need Arandur to translate for her most of the time.

She had no idea why she – nor anyone else – had not thought of it sooner. Here, now, her curse was one of the most useful things anyone could have: they literally had tons of spare rock, and they need food. She could actually turn one into the other.

In theory, anyway. Geezer pointed out that they'd have no way of knowing if anything she made had any actual nutritional value, but she tried anyway. She sat now on the rug before the fireplace in her room, a pile of rocks to her left, and a pile of apples to her right.

They certainly _tasted_ like an apple should, sweet and tangy and juicy, their skins a mix of pink and yellow – she'd modeled them after her favorite Pink Lady apples. Nutritious or not, they would at least fill stomachs.

Arandur knocked, and stuck his head through the doorway. "The Dwarves would like to see your handiwork," he said. "Well, _eat_ your handiwork. Is it safe?"

"If not, I will die, too," she said, rising to grab a pillowcase. She filled with her apples, praying she was not about to poison everyone.

"That is not precisely encouraging, Katje," he said. " _Should_ we worry about that?"

"I do not think so, but I do not know," she said, following him back out into the corridor. "I have not done this before. They _taste_ right, at least." This late in the afternoon, the hallways were more crowded than usual – shifts were changing, so hundreds moved in both directions, with all the intent of driver ants. At least she could very easily see over their heads.

"We ought to warn them anyway," Arandur said, raising his voice to be heard over the din. "Poisoning King Dain and his Council would not go over well."

No, no it would not. She doubted her apples could do anything lethal, but that didn't mean they couldn't make someone sick. And that would be bad enough.

If this had worked, though – if she'd managed to make real, actual apples – food supplies would no longer be an issue. She could keep all of Dale and Erebor fed, so long as they had enough spare rock lying around.

* * *

Thengel did not want to admit how relieved he was, when Elves and dead alike packed up and, as the Lorna woman said, got off his lawn.

Some of the dead lingered – for protection, they said – but at least stayed out of sight. Life could resume.

He still had no idea what to make of that very mismatched royal pair. Thranduil was every bit as imposing as rumor suggested, but not nearly so cold, and he and his odd little mortal wife seemed to genuinely love one another (even if they also seemed to love _insulting_ each other).

What worried him was that, should war come, his people had only Helm's Deep to fall back on, and Helm's Deep was not large enough to house all of Rohan's population. Something had to be thought of – and soon, from the sound of it.

* * *

Elrond really did not know what to do.

The twins had left a fortnight ago, headed first for Lothlórien, then for the Woodland Realm, leaving him with a horde of living dead milling about.

He had learned enough English, and Maeve enough Sindarin, that they could somewhat communicate. And he had not at all liked what she had to say.

"Leave," she said. "Or make…hole. Cave." Standing in the golden afternoon sunlight on the balcony of his study, her gory appearance was even more jarring, and it didn't help that she left bare, bloody footprints wherever she walked. "Darkness come. Will make you like us, but worse. Slave. No mind."

"There is nowhere to go," he said, "unless we sail west." It was a tempting idea, but he knew his work here was not yet finished. Galadriel would not leave, and he could not abandon her to face this without aid. Celebrían had sailed centuries ago, but Galadriel was still his mother by marriage, and certainly more than his own mother had ever been; Elwing had chosen a Silmaril over the lives of her children, and the only reason he lived now was because Maglor, who had slaughtered nearly everyone he knew, took pity on him and his brother. For all Elwing knew, she had been abandoning her sons to die, and had done so without a second thought.

"Then make cave. Large cave, fill with food, and survive. Or die now, save you. Save all you."

There was simply no way to hew a cavern that size in less than a century. They were not Dwarves. But then, there was one Elven realm that already had more than enough space underground – space that could be expanded upon.

Thranduil would hate him, but would not turn him away. Especially not if he had Galadriel with him.

"Perhaps there _is_ a place we might go," he said. "I only hope we have enough time."

* * *

Lorna didn't want to admit it, even to Thranduil, but thought of returning to Minas Tirith was fucking terrifying. And that really, really pissed her off.

When night came again, she sat outside their tent and watched the stars, wishing like hell she had a cigarette. Or a huge bag of weed. Thranduil's wind just wasn't the same as filling her lungs full of something toxic. Unfortunately, all she had to inhale was the warm night air, which was even more unfortunately redolent of horse. Damn.

"What are you thinking?" Thranduil asked, joining her.

"That I wish we could all just go to Earth," she said, leaning against his shoulder. "It's shitty there, but it's better than here. Especially since Von Arsehole isn't there anymore."

"Von Arsehole?" he repeated, dry as the Sahara. " _There_ is a mental image I did not need."

Lorna burst out laughing. "I didn't, either," she said. "Thanks for that."

"I live to serve," he said, more dryly still.

"I just bet you do. Do me a favor and serve me up some bedroom action, while we still have a chance."

"As my lady commands."

* * *

Thorvald had not anticipated this.

He knew at once he was no longer on Earth – the currents of magic here were vastly different. He could sense a number of other powers, too, wholly alien – and some very powerful indeed.

That did not please him.

He relished the idea of competition, but with one of these beings, there would _be_ no competition. While he could not die, he could be – and had been – trapped, and he did not ever wish to be so again.

He turned, ice crunching beneath his boots. The frigid air only made his eternal fever burn hotter in his veins, coursing like lava beneath his skin. The immortality bestowed on him by that strange being was as much a curse as a blessing, for upon touching the thing he had contracted the infection that wiped out most of his people. It would never kill _him_ , but he would also never be free of it.

Just now, he was too weak to do all he wished. Until he had drawn strength from this world's magic, he could not venture forth to conquer it. Fortunately, a thousand years in prison had made him very good at patience.

* * *

This world, Aelis thought, was as strange as the Other to her, though in a far better way.

She had emerged into the land called Rohan, but hung back out of sight when the Elves arrived. She so resembled Lorna – or rather, because Lorna so resembled her – she thought it prudent, for it would only unsettle them.

They would have to be unsettled sooner or later, though, because she could feel what they could not: very great evil was on the move, and not so far away. The being called Sauron would soon set forth, and the living needed to be safe in Minas Tirith before then.

The dead…well, they would take care of Sauron's army, insofar as they could, though they dare not approach the Dark Lord himself. _He_ might not know what would happen, should they be so foolish, but _she_ did, and it would be terrible for everyone involved – including him.

She and her kind were very nearly indestructible, but Sauron was like nothing they had ever faced; if anything could destroy them, it would be him. And should that happen – should they truly die – what would rise in their place would be horrible beyond imagining. For they had lived far too long in the Other.

No one, not even Sharley's father Azarael, knew just how the Memories had come about. They had not existed before the war that had nearly ripped the Other apart, but there were thousands of them now, and the only reason they had not finished what the war began was because they were confined to the place their…host…had died. In Middle-Earth, there would possibly be no such restriction. And if there were enough of them, they might well wreck much of the world before Sauron had a chance.

For Memories truly _were_ indestructible. Even Azarael, Death incarnate, could not rid the Other of them. They existed only to kill and to eat, and each person who perished at their hands created another Memory. While they could not touch Sauron himself, they would devastate his forces – which would be a good thing, if they would not also do the same to everyone else's. And if any of her people truly died, Memories they would become.

Moreover, what _nobody_ likely realized was that a third player would soon enter the game – one who, unlike Thorvald, would not willingly ally herself with Sauron. She would war against good and evil alike, and might well try to smash the metaphorical board out of sheer malice.

* * *

Sharley, Bilbo soon realized, was immensely troubled, and remained so even once they'd left Beorn's. Always a quiet woman, now she was all but silent, staring intently at things he could not see while they trekked through the dry, fragrant grass.

Even Sméagol seemed to sense something was amiss with her, for he was shockingly well-behaved of his own accord. Normally, she often had to stop him by saying his name, but she'd only had to do that once in the last two days.

Bilbo was at a loss as to what to do. He'd come to actually _like_ her, for all she still unnerved him, and seeing her so disturbed made him unhappy as well. She seemed weary, in some way beyond physical.

"Gandalf, what is wrong with her?" he asked. The sun beat mercilessly on all of them, and though he'd shed his coat, he was still sweating. Unfortunately, he seemed to be the only one who was.

"Nothing, I think," the wizard said. "Sharley has said little of herself, but she is a broken, unnatural creature. I expect such spells are normal for her."

 _That_ was a terrible thought. "What do you mean, 'broken'?"

"She is like Sméagol – two people war within her mind. She is simply far better at subsuming the other. Which is fortunate, as I do not believe any of us would want to see it."

That was an even less pleasant thought. "Do you think we ever will?"

"On this journey? I am sure of it. Be wary, Bilbo, of pressing her for information. You might not like what you find."

* * *

As in _Lord of the Zombies_ , I can't seem to resist having all Elves in frigging Middle-Earth turn up on Thranduil's lawn, though in this case he might not be around to see the first wave. That will leave poor Legolas to deal with them all, as if his life wasn't hard enough already.

As for the Memories…we will see them later. Just not for the reason you think.

Title means "Movement" in Irish. As always, your reviews feed my brain. Om nom.


	3. go maith nach é sin go maith

In which Aragorn enters the picture, Elrond evacuates Rivendell, and something they've all been dreading finally comes to pass.

* * *

Von Ratched would have been extremely annoyed at the approach of several hundred Elves, had they not been followed by several thousand zombies.

What.

And here things had been going surprisingly well, in spite of the imminent threat of Sauron. He'd had a long discussion with Ecthelion that also contained quite a bit of telepathic manipulation, and was quite satisfied with the outcome. He had thought to celebrate in his new quarters with a glass of wine, until a panicked guard told him of their horde of soon-to-be guests.

He stood now atop the second wall, and irritated though he was, he was also incredibly curious. While he had seen a great many things in his life, walking dead were a first. He did not count Aelis, whom he had only seen in dreams.

He descended the wall, and then the level, soothing the minds of the terrified guards and forcing them to open the gates. Once Lorna and Thranduil were near enough, again riding that massive beast, he arched an eyebrow.

"Zombies?" he said. " _Really?_ "

"Long story," Lorna said. She looked somewhat the worse for wear, with several shiny burn-marks on her face, her hair a mess. "Sauron's on the move, and none'v us wants to be out'v the city when he does."

As if in remarkably precise punctuation, lightning split the sky over Mordor, the boom of thunder so loud Von Ratched could feel it vibrate in his ear canals. "The living may enter. The dead –"

"—are coming too," a firm voice interrupted.

Somehow, Aelis was far worse in person than she'd been in dreams. It wasn't just that she looked like a white version of Lorna – although that didn't help at all – it was her eyes. Beneath their film of blood they were as vivid a green as Lorna's, so vivid they did not look real, but unlike hers, they were depthless wells of agony and rage. This was a woman who had looked into hell, and never looked away. Fighting her on this would not be a good idea.

"Very well," he said. "God knows where you will find room – the city is overcrowded enough as it is." And likely to riot, once its population saw what was entering. He _could_ soothe them all, but he was not particularly interested in making the effort.

Lorna turned to glance at Thranduil, who shrugged, and Von Ratched knew that neither of them would be of any use. He didn't have the ability, and she almost surely lacked the skill. Her strength was remarkable, but no one had ever taught her to use it – and Von Ratched certainly didn't want to. The last thing he needed was to hand her the tools to truly rival him.

In they came, and their host of Elves followed, several thousand strong. Between the Elves, dead, and erstwhile festival-goers, it might literally be standing room only.

The Elves split off in either direction with fittingly inhuman precision, remarkably quiet for such a large group, and the humans, so far blinded from the outside by the walls, made way for them without question.

The dead were another matter entirely.

The screaming, while not unexpected, was nevertheless irritating, the thunder of feet in panicked flight even more so. The presence of the Elves seemed to have no effect at all on the terrified humans, that was _before_ the arrows started flying.

"Oh, for God's sake," Von Ratched sighed, scanning the melee. He focused, and they froze. All of them.

"Go and find your places," he said, to Elves and dead alike, internally blessing the sudden silence. "Otherwise someone will be taken out by friendly fire."

Lorna stared at him, pale and wide-eyed. "That's a neat trick."

"I will not teach it to you," he said dryly. "Go. All of you."

"And what of the rest of the Edain?" Thranduil asked, his face an expressionless mask of porcelain. Trust the Elvenking to betray nothing of what he thought.

Von Ratched didn't do anything nearly so plebian as roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. He sought the minds of all in his thrall – which at this point was every human in the city – and neatly severed their consciousness.

They dropped where they stood, and there was something rather satisfying in the sound of so many bodies hitting the ground at once. It was rather like a symphony of thuds. Several of the Elves twitched, and Thranduil and Lorna exchanged a distinctly disturbed glance.

"Tell me you didn't just legit kill every goddamn human in Minas Tirith," she said, her voice unsteady and laced with disbelief.

"It was tempting, but no. They will wake when I say they will." That was the one good thing about this mess: rarely in his life had Von Ratched been given the chance to truly exert his power. Shadow-master that he was, few had seen the full measure of his strength and lived. For the first time, he was need not hide the true extent of who and what he was.

"I don't know if anyone's ever told you," Lorna said, "but you are _really_ fucking creepy. I can't believe you have to be on our side."

He arched an eyebrow again. "Would you rather I be on the other?"

The look she gave him actually disturbed _him_. "I don't know," she said. "You were in the other timeline, and you died anyway."

Had she seen his death, in that other universe? _He_ hadn't, not yet. Not that it mattered; this timeline was very different.

"Well, I am hardly dead here. Come, before the gates of Mordor open and every orc within it descends upon us."

* * *

Mirkwood bore little resemblance to the forest Bilbo had traversed a year ago. And not just because someone had ripped out part of it.

The air was clearer, somehow, lacking the oppressive heaviness that had borne down on him like a solid weight. Even the places the sun didn't touch were lighter, and there wasn't a spiderweb to be seen.

"I was busy," Sharley said, when he remarked on it. "Not else to do when I was here."

"You took care of the spiders on your own?" he asked, staring at the empty trees.

When he looked at her, she smiled, fleeting as a ghost. "No sleep, remember. Not," she paused, and spoke to Gandalf in her own tongue.

"She said she cannot read our language, and she was bored," the wizard translated.

"Did they run from you, precious?" Sméagol asked. He'd been keeping to the shadows, pacing the group in silence.

When Gandalf translated the question, she smiled again, but this time it was not at all a nice expression. When she replied, Gandalf said, "They tried."

* * *

Something was happening in the north – something not even the eldest of the Rangers had ever seen.

It was very, very far away, so far it almost could not be seen, but it was definitely there: a patch of darkness, black as night even during the height of the day. And, slowly but surely, it was spreading.

Aragorn could not explain why, but it filled him with a horror wholly out of proportion to the sight of it. It was darkness and nothing more, and though it was blatantly unnatural, it should not have stricken him so.

At least he was not the only one. Even the most senior of the Rangers hesitated to investigate it – whatever it was, it had to be the product of sorcery, and they were not at all equipped to deal with _that_. They needed a wizard, if one could be found.

"We move south," Haladan said. He was currently acting as chieftain, insofar as the Rangers had such a thing. "And take all we find with us. Whatever this is, I do not think it should touch the living.

"Should we seek Mithrandir?" Aragorn asked.

"No," Haladan said, his weathered face grim. "We go to Imladris. If any explanation for this is to be found, it will be in Lord Elrond's library. Mithrandir has a habit of turning up where he is needed most – it is likely he will find us."

"And if he does not?" Elboron queried.

Haladan's expression grew even grimmer. "Then something still worse has caught his eye."

* * *

Stepping around the fallen bodies of the humans of Minas Tirith was beyond creepy. Lorna knew they weren't actually _dead_ – she'd checked – but it was still creepy.

Worse still, Von Ratched had insisted that she and Thranduil go with him – well, just her, but where she went, Thranduil followed, like an overprotective giant. Not that she _minded_ , in this case. She'd rather keep an eye on him anyway.

And speaking of minds, she thought she might have found a way to shield Thranduil's, even if it felt _really_ weird. A part of her consciousness now resided within his, hopefully acting as some kind of vaccine. It meant that unless she concentrated, she saw things through his eyes as well as hers, which was beyond disorienting. Having so many of his memories, she knew how his vision worked, but it still felt totally alien. All things considered, she much preferred her own; the physical world was enough to look at, without seeing everyone's souls as well. That felt weirdly invasive.

But if she focused, she could keep her own vision separated from his, though at times she tripped because her brain thought her legs ought to be much longer. Naturally, _he_ didn't seem affected at all, the perfect bastard.

 _I will make it up to you later_ , he sent her, _should we have a chance._

 _You'd better_ , she sent back, and tripped. This would be so much worse when the city was full of Elves and zombies as well as humans, and she would probably be by far the shortest adult there. If she had to, she was going to make Thranduil carry her piggyback everywhere. She doubted he'd mind, since it would definitely mean they couldn't get separated.

"Where are we going?" she asked aloud.

"To meet with Ecthelion. He is still technically ruler of this city."

 _Technically?_ Lorna thought. Not that she was exactly surprised Von Ratched would have no problem taking over, but still. Sometimes she hated being right. "What are you going to tell him?"

" _I_ will tell him little," he said, with more than a little asperity. "You brought the zombies. You can explain their presence."

 _This will be an entertaining conversation_ , Thranduil sent her. _Whatever else it might be._

Unfortunately, he was probably right.

* * *

Mobilizing the entire population of Imladris was not an easy thing.

The dead were surprisingly helpful, organizing and packing, communicating through basic sign language. It would still take another week to fully muster everything, but Elrond sent off the first wave as soon as they were prepared. It would be easy enough to catch up later.

Arwen went with them, determined to find her brothers before they did something stupid, leaving Elrond and Maeve to deal with their respective people. It didn't help that they still had great difficulty communicating with each other, let alone one another's people, which only made things go more slowly.

He stood now in his library, empty of books. His people had lived in this valley for over a thousand years, and he prayed it would still be standing whenever they returned. The room seemed alien now that the books were gone, the empty shelves somehow sad even in the golden light of the setting sun.

His entire life had been one long, slow tale of loss. Abandoned by his parents, and raised by the ellon who slaughtered nearly all of those he knew – and who had also vanished, never to be found to this day. His brother, who had chosen mortality, and whose fate was now sundered from him. Celebrían at least he would see again one day, but they had been parted for centuries, and might well be parted for many more. And now he lost his home.

But at least, with luck, he need lose none of his people. And even if all the buildings in Imladris were razed to the ground, the valley would remain. Things could be rebuilt and remade.

He turned, and found Maeve standing in the doorway. At Arwen's gentle suggestion, she'd bathed and washed her clothes, but that almost made her look worse, for she was still very, very obviously dead, her skin blue-ish grey and eyes filled with blood. In the sunset, her hair was like a river of flame.

"You grieve," she said, and it was not a question.

"Yes," he said simply. She didn't speak nearly enough Sindarin to understand anything else he might say.

She gestured to the empty room, the stone terrace and trees beyond. "Stay," she said, and he knew what she meant – she echoed his thoughts.

"I know." At least, no matter how dire his life became, he _had_ a life. Maeve did not even have that. No life, no true home – though she was very far from alone.

What would the dead do, when their task was completed? Would they be doomed to wander Middle-Earth forever, or return whence they came? Were they never to find rest, and the Gift of Ilúvatar? He couldn't imagine such an existence, and didn't wish to. Especially not after the horrible manner in which they had died. Elladan and Elrohir had told him of the wonders of Maeve's world, as relayed by the Lorna woman, but obviously there were terrible nightmares, too.

"Come," she said. "Next near ready." She made a walking motion with her fingers, and he understood: the next group was about to depart. He had best see to it.

* * *

Lord Ecthelion was a tall, spare, sober man – and very obviously at least partially enthralled by Von Ratched.

Von Ratched, whose powers were even more disturbing than Thranduil had realized. He would not have thought _anyone_ , even a wizard, could do what the man had done to the entire population of Minas Tirith.

But then, his magic was unlike that of the Istari. Like Lorna, he could do but two things – he just did them unnervingly well. And certainly Ecthelion seemed to have no idea he was being manipulated.

He met with them in a dining-hall far too large for such a small party, after first giving them an opportunity to wash up. Thranduil had tended to Lorna's burns while they were at it – at least they were healing nicely. What in Eru's name Ecthelion would make of her, he didn't know, but they would shortly find out.

The dining-hall was built of the same pale stone as the rest of Minas Tirith, the floor of something shiny and black as jet. Every lamp was lit, as though this was actually some manner of formal occasion – although at least the long, gleaming table was not overloaded with food. If nothing else, Von Ratched understood the concept of rationing.

Lorna eyed a roasted pheasant with open greed, largely ignoring Thranduil's explanation of their presence – and that of the dead. Ecthelion seemed content to ignore her as well, though young Denethor watched her curiously. No doubt he found her as puzzling as almost everyone else did.

 _Can we_ eat _yet?_ Lorna asked, still staring at the pheasant.

"I believe my wife will die of hunger if we do not eat soon," he said, smirking when she glowered at him.

"Berk," she said.

"You are welcome," he retorted solemnly, before turning back to Ecthelion. "She can consume a surprising amount of food for one so small. Do not ask me where she puts it."

"Eyebrows, Thranduil," she growled, ignoring Ecthelion and Denethor's confused looks.

"So you continually threaten," he said. "Eat up, Dilthen Ettelëa."

"That is still the worst nickname," she said, cutting into the pheasant with gusto.

"Three words, Lorna: Drag Queen Barbie."

A very faint choking sound came from Von Ratched's general area. "That, King Thranduil, is indeed worse." He looked insufferably pleased at acquiring _that_ little tidbit of information.

"Stuff it, Von Arsehole," Lorna said, still sawing away. "Only I get to call him that. And before you even start, only he gets to call me Little Stranger."

Before he could retort, a truly massive crack of thunder split the air, so loud it rattled the dishes on the table and the windows in their frames. It was so loud that even Thranduil jumped.

"That can't be good," Lorna said, hopping off her chair and hurrying to the window, stealing his glass of wine first. Thranduil followed her with deep misgivings.

The gates of Mordor were too distant for Edain eyes to make out, but he could see them quite clearly.

And they were opening.

* * *

Dun dun dunnn. Yeah, you guys are about to have a very, very large problem.

Title means "Well that's not good" in Irish. As always, reviews keep me writing. I hear from so few of you anymore – how am I doing?


	4. An Osclaíonn Geata

In which Sauron heads out, everybody still conscious in Minas Tirith _freaks_ out, and poor Thranduil in particular does not have a good time.

* * *

Lorna had no idea what in hell they were meant to be looking at, until she borrowed Thranduil's creepy Elf-vision. And then she swore.

The gates of Mordor were bad enough from the outside, all dark, twisted metal, but what spewed out when they opened was far worse. She'd seen orcs in his memory, so she shouldn't be disturbed by them, but she was. She really, really was.

They came out in a massive disorganized horde, bearing torches that flared like bright eyes in the dark. And at their head stood what had to be the tallest man she had ever seen, taller even than Thranduil, in a suit of spiky black armor that looked designed to shred anything it touched. The helmet was even worse, the spikes atop it like knives in their own right. Even Thranduil couldn't see any hint of a face beneath it, but he knew – and thus, so did she – that there was no face. Sauron, like the Nazgûl, was a being of spirit rather than skin, but he couldn't be dealt with as simply as they had. He couldn't be _dealt with_ at all.

"Well, we're fucked," she muttered. If he decided to turn his attention to Minas Tirith, there wasn't a damn thing any of them could do. She wondered if they had enough time for her to drag Thranduil into a corner and shag him one last time.

"I do not think so," he said. "Not yet. If it is Thorvald he seeks, he will not spend his army on the city. He has seen what you and Von Ratched can do."

"I hope like hell you're right," she said, groping for his hand. Yes, it was childish, and no, she didn't care in the slightest. She was about ready to piss herself, especially when a jag of lightning revealed just how many orcs were spilling out onto the plains. How could Thranduil handle this so calmly? Hell, even _Von Ratched_ looked disturbed as hell, in an understated way.

But then, Thranduil had actually _fought_ Sauron before. This was not new to him. Granted, given what she had of his memories, she'd figure that would make him _more_ afraid, not less. He'd lost his father and two-thirds of his army.

 _If he turns this way, we're going to go find a nice alcove and screw like rabbits until he does_ , she sent him.

He actually snorted, a sound that was not quite a laugh. _You do have your priorities straight, don't you?_

 _Damn right I do. If we're going to die, I want to jump your bones one last time_. She wasn't kidding, either.

 _You really are so very romantic. We are not going to die – trust me._

 _Yeah, not yet, maybe_ , she said. If he actually did find Thorvald, their death-sentence might well just be delayed.

Lightning flashed again, blinding her eyes, but not his, and the dissonance nauseated her. Bile did not make a good combination with the wine, which, while good, didn't hold a candle to Dorwinion. Why was she even thinking about that right now?

 _You are panicking_ , Thranduil said. _Stop it._

 _Why?_ she asked.

 _Because it accomplishes nothing. We must go and see to our own people. Let Von Ratched deal with Ecthelion._

Lorna was perfectly happy to do that. Ecthelion had completely ignored her, and while she didn't normally _mind_ being ignored in practice, in principle, it was irritating. It was probably just a cultural thing, but it was still annoying. She was not some warped form of arm candy.

So she happily followed Thranduil out into the night, into a rising wind. Apparently Von Ratched had either forgotten he'd put all the humans in Minas Tirith asleep, or he simply didn't care enough to let them wake again. Either way, stepping around all those fallen bodies didn't make things any easier. Only a few of the lanterns had been lit, probably by either Elves or zombies, and having to navigate in the dark just made it worse.

"Oh, come here," Thranduil said, lifting her off her feet and carrying her as though she were a child. It was a damn good thing she had no dignity, or she might really have minded.

"Where are we going?" she asked, trying to turn to look at what was, to her, a blur of light and shadow.

"The fourth circle," he said, maneuvering with unfair ease through the piles of bodies _and_ growing press of zombies. "Most of our command will be there."

" _Why?_ " she asked, though the word was drowned out by another clap of thunder. The lightning flash-blinded again her for a moment, and she rubbed her eyes, hard. A fat, cold raindrop landed splat on her head, and she groaned. Because _this_ was just what any of them needed.

Naturally, more followed, until they were moving through an outright deluge. The wind might be warm, but the rain was freezing, soaking through her clothes by the time they reached the fourth circle.

The zombies were soaked, too, but they hardly seemed to mind – though the rain smeared the blood on their faces into gruesome masks. As if they hadn't been gross enough to begin with, the poor bastards. They parted before Thranduil like a wave, closing ranks behind him in eerie silence, and many of them followed – possibly they had no idea what else to do.

"We will not go out." Aelis had appeared at Thranduil's left as if by magic, looking up at him – and Lorna – with her grave, bloody eyes. "Not unless he attacks directly. Our presence beyond the walls might well attract him, even if he has no intent of violence against us."

"So what, we just shut the gates and hope he doesn't notice?" Lorna asked, rubbing water out of her eyes.

"More or less. But if Sauron does turn our way, we must be prepared to repel him. We must do whatever we can."

"Can we stop him?" she asked, leaning back enough to look at him. In the storm-light his face was even paler than usual, his eyes twin wells of haunted memory.

"No," he said flatly. "But we _can_ slow him down."

* * *

Sharley, Gandalf, Bilbo, and Sméagol had just reached the gates of the Wood-Elves' halls when multiple lines of potentiality collapsed.

She staggered, nearly losing her balance entirely. God, she _hated_ when that happened – though not half so much as she hated what they had collapsed into.

" _Motherfucker_ ," she swore, eyes wide as they turned to the southeast. "Gandalf, we have a problem," she said, turning to look at him. Even in the waning moonlight, his expression suggested that what she had to say would not surprise him.

"He is on the move, isn't he?" In that moment, the wizard looked every bit as old as he really was – old, and weary.

"Yeah." She glanced down at Bilbo and Sméagol. They ought to leave tonight, but there was no way she'd get Sméagol settled that fast, they didn't have nearly enough supplies, and Bilbo was obviously exhausted. She had forgotten how limiting mortality could be. "We'd best head out tomorrow, if we can. And hope like hell we don't meet that bastard halfway."

 _"_ That _would be awkward,"_ Jimmy said.

 _"And fatal to Bilbo,"_ Kurt added.

Gandalf, too, at least in physical form. At his core he was, Sharley had seen, the same sort of being as Sauron, but like the Elves, he was basically a mortal who didn't really age. He breathed and bled like any other living thing, and could stop doing both all too easily, if they weren't careful.

Sometimes, Sharley thought, being dead really was a blessing.

* * *

The Edain of Minas Tirith were _still_ unconscious, and it was really beginning to get on Thranduil's nerves.

Elves and dead alike had to move them out of the way, trying to stash them all somewhere dry. He would never admit to Lorna that he had tried slapping a few of them awake, with no result whatsoever.

Those who were not tasked with body-removal shut and barred the gate, and as many as would fit ranged atop the outer wall, arrows at the ready. In spite of what he told Lorna, he wasn't fully sure Sauron would not divert toward them, and if he did, they needed to at least take out as many of his forces as they could before they were overrun.

Thranduil stood on the wall himself, a sodden Lorna beside him. Not since the Last Alliance had he seen such an army of orcs, and it brought back memories he had long since tried to bury. They marched without form or order, purposeful but chaotic, their armor as coarse and ugly as their faces even at this distance.

To think that these creatures were descended from _Elves_. Morgoth's corruption of them had been beyond absolute, and now they were unrecognizable. They plodded through the ever-worsening mud like a swarm of driver ants, the very sight of them distasteful in the extreme.

And then he saw Sauron, and his knees very nearly gave out beneath him.

The Dark Lord rode at the center of his horde, on a monstrously huge black charger that snorted great clouds of steam into the air. His armor was exactly as Thranduil remembered it, and the sight of it sent a shudder of horror through him. One of those gauntlets had crushed his father's skull, as though his helm was made of tin. Thranduil had watched it happen, too far away to intervene – had seen Oropher's brain leak out into the mud, his blood mingling with that of so very many others.

The scent of the battle came back to him now, hitting him like a Dwarven battle-hammer – not just blood, but the decay of bodies unburied, Elves, Men, and Orcs alike. Choking smoke, and the stench of burning flesh from what funeral-pyres they could build. After seven years sitting outside the gates of Mordor, firewood was scarce, and could rarely be spared for dignified cremation.

The strength of the memory all but drove the breath from him – perhaps it might have, if he hadn't felt Lorna's small hand take his. It was Edain-warm, even in the cold rain, and so very, very tiny, strong brown fingers twining through his like an anchor.

He looked down at her, and found her looking up at him, her eyes bright even in the dark. The rain had plastered her hair to her head, long strands of it stuck to her face. She had so many of his memories – did she have that one? Did she have any of the Last Alliance? Eru, he hoped not, but the look in her eyes told him his hope was vain.

 _This is not that battle,_ she sent him. _Even if things totally go to shit, it's not the same. For one thing, we've got all these goddamn zombies, and for another, you've got me. And he doesn't have the Ring._

No, he did not, but that would not save them.

 _Hey, you told me not to panic. You don't get to do it yourself. I'll make you a deal – keep your shit together, and if we don't all die here, swear to God, I will throw you down on this wall and shag you senseless right in front of everyone._

Incredibly, even as the horde approached, he laughed, the horror of his memory eased a little. _That would be terribly uncomfortable._

 _Trust me, I'd make sure you didn't care_. She squeezed his hand, looking back at the orcs. The closer they came, the louder they grew, their foul tongue polluting the air and echoing off the city walls. The very sound of it grated on his ears like a landslide of rusty nails.

Closer, closer came Sauron, and Thranduil could tell that some of his own people were growing faint. The dead were not, but they were already dead; they had little to fear, or thought they did not. He didn't want to imagine what Sauron could do to them, and he was rather glad they were unaware of it. He also hoped they need never find out.

Aelis joined them, standing on his other side, watching the Dark Lord with her bloody eyes. She radiated curiosity, not fear, and he was not surprised; she had likely seen far worse things than any of the living in all of Minas Tirith. "He will not turn," she said, her voice so soft that a mortal might not have heard it over the pouring of the rain. Faint runnels of pink ran beneath her feet, the age-old blood that stained her dress washing away, and for some reason, the sight nauseated him.

"Are you sure of that, or do you say it to reassure yourself?" he asked, looking down at her. Eru, she looked so very much like Lorna, but even in death, there was an odd gentility about her that Lorna entirely lacked. This was a woman who had been nobility once, he was sure of it; soft where Lorna was hard, a rose rather than tough thorn. Had she been more like Lorna, perhaps she would never have wed Thorvald; she might still have died of that pestilence, but at least she would not have had her heart hacked out of her chest.

He squeezed Lorna's hand, grateful that she was the way she was. It had maddened him before, and occasionally still did, but she was nothing if not a survivor.

"I am sure of it. Though it would be better for all the lands beyond us if he did."

Thranduil thought of Rohan, of Thengel and his dry, understated sense of humor. They had all been warned that Sauron might move at any time; hopefully they would have been wise enough to get out of his way. If not, there was nothing any in Minas Tirith could do about it. Somehow, that did not comfort him.

Still the rain poured, dousing may of the orcs' torches, but onward they came, a patch of snarling darkness in the waning moonlight. The smell of Dagorlad came back all the stronger, and he thought of the dead who still lay in the fens before the black gates. Had their bones long crumbled, or had the dark magic of the place preserved them? Might Sauron one day raise his own army of walking dead?

He wished he had not thought of that. Too many he had known had fallen, and the thought of seeing any of them again in the same state as Aelis was too horrible to be borne. At least his father had been borne home, and laid to rest in the Woodland Realm. What was left of him, anyway.

It was nearly dawn before the host had passed, and only then did he dare properly breathe. Sad grey light seeped through the clouds, but still it rained; the streets were flooding beneath them, and he thought it fortunate that they had moved all the unconscious Edain out of the way. Otherwise, who knew how many might drown, even in such shallow water, from having their faces pressed to the stone.

"Well," Lorna said, breaking the heavy silence, "we're not dead. Yay. C'mon, Drag Queen Barbie – I'd rather shag you senseless in a hot bath than out here."

Thranduil laughed, though the tension coiled in his chest did not ease. They were indeed not dead, but there was no telling how much longer any of them might survive.

* * *

Poor Thranduil. I would imagine he'd have some serious PTSD from that battle, even a thousand years later.

Title means "the gate opens" in Irish. As always, your reviews give me hope.


	5. Taistealaí

In which Legolas is not happy, Thranduil, Lorna, Von Ratched, and several thousand Elves and zombies head off after Sauron, and Sméagol has a new BFF.

* * *

Legolas was not at all pleased by the… _thing_ …Mithrandir dumped upon him, though the creature – Sméagol, apparently – was even less pleased. He whined and cried and probably swore, until Sharley's little daughter Marty came wandering into the study without bothering to knock, as was her habit.

She halted at the sight of the creature – who had, for some reason, crept atop a bookshelf, hissing down at them all rather like a cat with a throat full of phlegm. Sméagol halted, too, silencing abruptly, staring with those unnaturally huge eyes.

"Daughter," Sharley said in Westron, amusement far back in her odd eyes. "My daughter, Sméagol. Marty. Marty, come here," she added in English. "This is Sméagol. He needs help."

 _He needs a lot more than that,_ Legolas thought. He wished – oh, how he wished – that he could refuse this…guest…but between Mithrandir and Sharley, he knew he stood no chance. Even his father could not have stood against the both of them together.

"Hi," Marty said – in Westron. The little girl had picked up quite a bit of it, according to Tauriel, mostly just from following people around and listening to them.

Sméagol eyed her with open fascination. "What is it, precious?" he asked, actually creeping down from the bookshelf.

"Daughter," Sharley repeated. "Look after you. With you, until return." She gestured from herself, to Mithrandir, to Bilbo, who looked half asleep on his feet.

"If I put eggs on your head, you might grow hair," Marty said solemnly, which drew a snorting laugh from Bilbo. "Like, normal hair."

Sméagol blinked at her, apparently nonplussed. Marty, Legolas had found, tended to have that effect on people; the words she said were often nonsense at first, and only in retrospect could their actual meaning be divined.

Someone, no doubt tired of seeing her wander around in a shirt and trousers stained with old, rusty blood, had fished a child's dress out of some closet or other, and insisted she bathe before she put it on. Somehow, the effect was _worse_ – it was easier to see just how pretty a child she must have been, when she was alive. In her own clothes, she simply looked unnatural; now, wearing a little dress of forest-green, she looked like an abomination. An adorable, undead, milky-eyed abomination. Even _Mithrandir_ seemed to agree.

Sharley, naturally, would not see it – could not, for she was Marty's mother, and mothers were always biased.

"Stay with Marty, Sméagol," Sharley ordered. "Two together, until we are home."

He gurgled and whined, but his bulging eyes wandered ever back to Marty, too fascinated to maintain his distress. He seemed almost hypnotized by her.

"I believe she will look after him, Prince Legolas," Mithrandir said. "Bilbo, Sharley, and I must set out as soon as possible, once we have provisioned ourselves. Time is of the essence."

 _Yes_ , Legolas thought, _it is_. That made him no happier about the whole mess, but if he had learned one thing in his brief time as Prince Regent, it was that his happiness was of little consequence. It was no wonder his father had been so foul-tempered for so very long. It was a wonder he hadn't thrown more people in the dungeons.

"Very well, Mithrandir. Sharley. Sméagol can stay," he sighed, fighting an urge to rub his temples.

Sharley smiled, so brief and fleeting he wasn't sure he hadn't imagined it. "Thank you," she said. "I come back for them."

Legolas hoped so. Marty was fine, if unsettling, but he did _not_ want Sméagol here forever.

* * *

Lorna – and everyone – knew the moment Von Ratched allowed all the humans of Minas Tirith to wake up, because a load of them started screaming.

"Great," she muttered. She hadn't got nearly enough sleep, which was partly her fault, and partly Thranduil's – she'd made good on her threat to drag him to the bathroom, shoving a few unconscious people out of the way, and pulled him into one of the huge tubs. The hot water honestly felt just as good as Thranduil's mouth and hands, driving away the chill of the night's rain, and he'd decided to see how long he could hold his breath and give her head underwater at the same time. It was a good thing the humans were all unconscious, because the noises she'd made would have scandalized them all. She was still sore, but in a good way. A very, very good way. "Just great."

"Ignore them," Thranduil said, kissing the back of her neck. They'd stolen someone's unoccupied room, where Lorna had bundled herself up into a blanket burrito and snuggled up against him like a cat. "They will calm."

"They'd better. This day is going to suck enough as it is. We have to take Von Ratched home with us, don't we?" A horrible thought occurred to her: she could be injured easily as ever, even though Sharley had stopped her Time, but would that mean she wouldn't _heal_ once she'd been injured? She would have hoped that would have occurred to Sharley before doing her voodoo, but the woman was _dead_ – she didn't have cause to think of it herself, so she might not for Lorna, either. _That_ was a thought she didn't want to contemplate right now, so she wouldn't. Von Ratched was bad enough

"Unfortunately, yes," Thranduil sighed, fingers tangling in her hair. "Like a rabid stray dog. At least he must bring this crucial weapon, so we stand a better chance of actually discovering what it _is_."

"Small miracles," Lorna muttered, forcing herself to sit up and throw off her blankets. The air was much chillier than she liked, certainly chilly for summer, and extremely muggy. It didn't help that she'd spent last night naked, her clothes having to be laid out in front of the fire to dry. She knew there was a reason she so rarely did that, and mornings like this were it. "Somebody has to ride ahead and warn everyone back home that frigging _Sauron_ is on the way. And oh Christ," she said, horrified yet also darkly amused, "we have to make sure we don't catch up to him, don't we? I can't think there's any way for all nine bloody thousand'v us to get around him."

Thranduil didn't bother suppressing a sigh. "No," he said, sitting up with her, "there is not, and I had hoped you would not think of it. You forget, however, that there are a vast number of dead in his way, who will take word of his approach to all who need to know."

Well, that was a giant relief. "I wonder why they don't all just…swarm him, or something. I know he's the Dark Lord and all, but there's two goddamn _million'v_ them."

"Were he a normal Maia, that would work," Thranduil said, rising off the bed, "but he was too cunning. On one hand, losing the Ring weakened him greatly, but on the other, so long as it endures, so does he."

"Sneaky," Lorna said, grudgingly impressed, and sighed herself. "We'd best go find Von Arsehole. If he's half as smart here as he is in the other timeline, he'll be waiting for us."

"Oh, joy," Thranduil deadpanned.

"Look at it this way," she said. "Once we're well on the way, you and I can make him extremely uncomfortable. I doubt it's possible to traumatize him, but we _can_ disturb him."

Thranduil kissed the crown of her head. "Dilthen Ettelëa, I like the way you think."

* * *

Von Ratched was not at all looking forward to going with the Elves.

He had a good thing going in Minas Tirith, and it had been well on its way to being a better one. Among the Elves, not only would he be known for what he was, he would be telepathically outmatched by most of them – and while Lorna did not _outmatch_ him, she did _equal_ him. He was unaccustomed to not being the most powerful being in any given place, and he did not anticipate this with anything close to pleasure.

But there was nothing to be done for it. Lorna could not defeat Thorvald without him, and he could hardly aid her from here. This would not be enjoyable in the least, but he was too much of a realist to think there was any other way.

So he packed his bags, bundled the swords into a leather-wrapped bundle of other long items like sticks, and hoped neither she nor Thranduil would think to try to look through his things. He would have to actually keep them on his person at all times.

To his irritation, they soon turned up on his doorstep, already geared for travel. Lord, what an odd pair they made – Thranduil, tall and improbably, inhumanly attractive, and Lorna, tiny and very, very human. In her own way, though, she was attractive enough herself, in spite of her truly unsetting eyes. Von Ratched wondered what, exactly, her racial background was; her features did not suggest anything in particular, but her complexion was too dark for her to be wholly white, and what of her hair wasn't silver was jet black. He could see why he might have been drawn to her, in that other timeline.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she said. "Are we going to _go_ already?"

Or perhaps not.

* * *

Aragorn did not want to admit it, even to himself, but he was glad they were hurrying away from the darkness as fast as ever they could.

Because it was spreading.

It moved very, very slowly, so slowly he at first thought he imagined it, but the others saw it, too. Haladan's expression went very grim, and they pushed on faster, resting only when absolutely necessary. This far north, the sun was rarely very warm, but the heat and light of it were welcome upon Aragorn's face. Darkness might pursue them, but it had not caught them yet. And if they were very, lucky, _someone_ would know how to contain it before it caught anyone else.

* * *

Legolas was beyond done. Far beyond done.

Mithrandir, Sharley, and Bilbo had waited only long enough for Geezer to reach the Woodland Realm from Dale, and left Legols stuck with Sméagol. Sméagol, who he wanted to lock in the dungeons and forget about, except that Sharley had asked him to be kind to the creature, and Sharley was a difficult person to refuse – mostly because he did not want to know what she would do to him if he did. And agreement got her to take her unsettling presence elsewhere.

Fortunately, her daughter Marty seemed to have taken it upon herself to stay with Sméagol, and keep him out of mischief. The problem was that she was more than adept at getting into benign mischief of her own, not helped by the fact that, being already dead, safety was of no concern. When last Legolas had seen them, they were each perched in one of the pair of antlers above his father's throne, and he had not the heart to tell them off. At least it was harmless.

No, his biggest problem as the dead woman sitting across from him, at the other side of his father's desk.

After Marty, the living dead should not shock him, but this one more than accomplished _that_ feat. An Edain woman, Southron by her appearance, small and soft-featured, her dark eyes filmed with blood. And, naturally, English-speaking.

 _Why_ had he not learned more of the tongue? Most of the guards who spoke more of the language were with his father. Tauriel understood it far better than he, but her ability to _speak_ it was far worse.

But then, the point of this woman's speech was easily (unfortunately) grasped: Sauron, she said, was on the move. And he was headed this way.

That…that was worse than any scenario anyone had yet conceived of. They had all been preparing for siege from Thorvald, but _both_ of them? Nobody stood a chance. Even the halls could not withstand a concentrated assault from both sides forever, and nearly the entirety of their army was away with his father.

They were doomed. Even with their army of dead, they were doomed.

"We will stand between you and Thorvald," the woman said. "He cannot harm us. Sauron, however, can, and no one wants what would result. Even him."

That was not at all what Legolas needed to hear. Not remotely.

* * *

Gandalf wanted her to stay with Bilbo, but Sharley was pretty sure he was going to have to be the one to do that for a while. The way they were heading, there was a chance they'd actually meet up with Sauron, and if that was the case, she'd have to play decoy so they could get around the fucker. And a certain morbid part of her actually looked _forward_ to it.

 _"You're sick in the head, Sharley,"_ Kurt disparaged.

"And _you_ live in there," she retorted quietly. "That can't be coincidence, now can it?"

Bilbo glanced up at her, wary, but Gandalf must have explained the voices, for he no longer looked confused. The pity she could have done without, but it was only natural someone like him would feel sorry for her.

 _"I resent that remark,"_ Kurt said.

 _"You mean you resemble it,"_ Layla snickered.

 _"And I bet you think you're so clever for coming up with that one,"_ he said witheringly.

 _"Oh, shut your cake-hole,"_ Jimmy said. _"You're both irritating as hell."_

 _"Jimmy, we don't have cake-holes,"_ Layla pointed out. _"Or any holes."_

Jimmy snorted. _"Heh, you said 'hole'."_

Kurt groaned. _"What did I do to deserve getting saddled with you two?"_

 _"You exist,"_ Sinsemilla said. "Quiet, all of you. We need to watch, not bicker."

"But it's so boring, _"_ Layla complained.

 _"Stop whining,"_ Sinsemilla ordered.

Sharley rolled her eyes. Sauron really was looking like a better option. If he got to be too much trouble, she'd just dump these four on him.

* * *

Lorna would have expected Von Ratched to want to ride as far away from her and Thranduil as possible. She'd certainly _hoped_ he would, but nope – he stayed fairly close to the elk, looking unfairly at home on his horse. Unlike her, he actually looked like he could belong in this world, instead of sticking out like a sore thumb as she had (and probably still did, honestly).

For once, she was actually glad of the elk's height, because it meant she could literally look down on him, which was sure as hell a nice change.

He said little at first, appearing rather to watch and listen – no doubt as closely as he could. It was really, really unfortunate that the bastard spoke Sindarin – how could he have learned that _and_ Westron so fluently in less than a year?

Twat.

At least he didn't speak Irish – and Lorna was by now quite sure of that, because she caught a subtle frown of displeasure on his face every time she used it to speak to Thranduil. That frown made her smile, and she suspected the only reason Thranduil didn't was because of Stoic King Face®. Unconsciously or not, now that Von Arsehole was among them, he'd partly retreated into creepy alien mode, but with her literally right in front of him, he couldn't maintain it.

"So exactly how slow do we need to go, to avoid crawling up Sauron's arsehole?" she asked, finally in Sindarin.

"Thank you for that mental image, Lorna," Thranduil said, sounding pained. "He will move with all the speed he can, but orcs do not fare well in daylight – though better than goblins. Sharley had mentioned possibly crossing the mountains; with any luck, she will take care of them as she did our spider infestation."

To Lorna's immense surprise, Von Ratched froze. It was subtle, so subtle she almost thought she imagined it, until he turned those ungodly pale eyes on Thranduil. "Sharley," he repeated. "Tall woman, pale, sectoral heterchromia?"

"Huh?" Lorna asked.

"Eyes that do not match. Does this Sharley fit that description?"

"Yes, actually," Thranduil said.

"Wait, d'you _know_ her?" Lorna asked.

"Unfortunately, yes," Von Ratched said grimly. "She was a patient of mine, some sixty years ago. I had hoped she would have died by now."

"She did," Thranduil said dryly, "and then she came back. In a sense. Though I would imagine she was as unsettling alive as she is now."

"She was…peculiar. A fascinating subject, but I could not say I was sorry when she vanished. Of _course_ she would have to be here now."

Wow. Never, in any of Lorna's dreams of what might have been, had she seen that. Now she _really_ wanted the two to meet up. Hopefully the Elves could invent popcorn by then.

Of course, she'd be headed this way with Gandalf, Bilbo, and Geezer soon enough – shit, what if they ran head-on into Sauron? She didn't really know a whole lot about this Ring, but she _did_ know that the last thing in the world anyone needed was him getting his grubby little armored paws on it. Hopefully Gandalf and Sharley between them could at least get Bilbo and it safely away. Otherwise nothing anybody did would be worth a damn.

* * *

This might just be the first time in the history of Middle-Earth that an army has to _slow down_ to avoid actually _catching_ their enemy. Thranduil is very shortly going to find it weird as hell. Naturally, there is a new chapter in _Ettelëa Interludes._

Title means "Travelers" in Irish. You know how it goes: Reviews keep me going.


	6. Físeanna

In which Geezer has the time of his life, Von Ratched does not, and Lorna has a nasty vision of things that hopefully are not to come.

* * *

Geezer had no idea where he'd heard the term 'fanboy', but he'd sure as hell never thought it could ever be applied to _him_. Now, though, trekking through the wilderness with goddamn _Bilbo Baggins and Gandalf the fucking Grey_ , he had to admit it: he was having a fanboy moment. At fifty-odd years of age. He'd hang his head in shame, if he wasn't so inwardly thrilled.

All they were doing was _walking_ , too, the heat of the summer sun kept somewhat at bay by the canopy of leaves. He actually kind of wished they'd see a giant spider, just for the hell of it, but apparently Sharley and that creepy-ass sword of hers had mostly taken care of that problem. He hadn't yet decided what he thought of her presence on this trip – yeah, she'd be useful as hell, but there was just something _off_ about her.

Surprisingly, _Bilbo_ didn't seem to think so. He lagged behind with her, patiently teaching her Westron, and learning a little English in return.

"He is a remarkable little fellow," Gandalf said, catching Geezer's glances at the pair. "There is little in Middle-Earth he could not accept, with time."

"'Course he is," Geezer said. "He's Bilbo goddamn Baggins. I don't have any way of tellin' you how famous you all are, in my world. The books about what woulda been your quest, if all of us humans hadn't showed up, are what got me through the war in 'Nam. I've forgotten a hell of a lot of my life – Christ, I don't even know my own _name_ anymore – but I remember your story."

"Anthony," Sharley called.

"Huh?" he said, turning to look at her. She was watching him a little too closely with her mismatched eyes. "You were born Anthony Edward Rollins on July fourteenth, nineteen-fifty-five."

"She can see your history," Gandalf explained, since she didn't seem inclined to.

"…That's fuckin' creepy," Geezer muttered. "Useful, but creepy. Think I'll stick with Geezer – I don't remember being Anthony anymore."

"Why is that?" Gandalf asked.

"Think it's related to my curse," Geezer said, ducking a low-hanging branch. "The more I see of the future, the more of the past I forget. All these powers we have, in my world? They're called curses for a reason. Every damn one of 'em comes with a catch – mine's just worse than most." An unlike Katje's, Ratiri's, and Lorna's, his would never get better. There was no controlling it at all.

"When all of this is over," Gandalf said, "we will see what might be done about that."

* * *

The trail left by Sauron's army was impossible to miss.

Lorna was pretty sure most armies left _some_ trace of their passage – even the Elves couldn't help it – but it looked like the orcs had gone out of their way to stomp and crush every living thing they could find.

It made grazing the horses difficult, which meant they couldn't directly follow in the army's footsteps. Not that she would have wanted to anyway.

"How do orcs…keep going?" she asked, leaning back against Thranduil's chest. Riding the elk was still rather uncomfortable, but at least it meant she could occasionally turn and sniff Thranduil like a creepy. "I can't imagine orc babies. I sure as hell don't _want_ to imagine them going at it."

She felt as much as heard Thranduil's groan. "I did not either, so thank you for that. In truth, I do not know, nor have I ever cared to ask."

" _I_ would rather like to know," Von Ratched said, thoughtful.

"Of course _you_ would," Lorna said witheringly. Part of her wished like hell he wouldn't keep pace with the elk, but at least if they could see him, they knew he wasn't off doing something stupid or horrible to someone.

"I would _really_ like to know how Morgoth made them out of Elves, of all creatures," he mused. "Was it magic, genetic engineering, or both?"

"Don't even think about it," she warned.

He looked at her, those ungodly pale eyes unreadable. "Oh, it's far too late for that."

Well, that was a little more disturbing than she needed at this hour of the morning. "As long as thinking's _all_ you do," she said. "No Mengele experiments."

Von Ratched didn't snort, but she suspected it was only because he thought it beneath him. "Mengele," he spat. "He could have had such a brilliant mind, if only he had not been functionally insane. And even _I_ have never experimented upon children."

Well, it was nice to know he had one limit, even though it was probably the only one. Thank fucking God her twins weren't his, in this universe. The mere thought made her shudder.

Thranduil wrapped his right arm around her, ostensibly to help her keep her balance. "Why did you not kill him?"

"I wanted to see what he would do. Never had I seen a mind like his, before or since. There are those who say that evil is not born, but _made_ , which in his case was patently untrue."

"And yours," Thranduil said dryly.

"I have never pretended I was anything other than what I am," Von Ratched said, with more than a little asperity. "Yes, King Thranduil, I was born a monster. Some people just are. I, however, have at least _accomplished_ something with it, which is more than could be said for Mengele."

Lorna didn't want to know just what he'd accomplished. She really, really didn't – especially since she'd seen some of what he _would_ have accomplished, in that other timeline.

She wondered how much he had seen, in his own dreams of might-have-been. Probably too much. Even having him ride beside them was creeping her out, so she decided that, sore or not, she and Thranduil would do their best to make _him_ uncomfortable tonight. Sure, they'd traumatize everyone else, too, but that was a sacrifice she was willing to make.

"You're creepy," she said, "and I need a nap, so keep the volume down." By now she'd grown quite adept at curling up on the elk, using Thranduil and his dress for a pillow. She shouldn't feel safe sleeping near him, but she trusted him to keep Von Ratched at bay.

 _On the ground, the retreat had already begun. Lorna was no military strategist, but even she realized it had to be a feint - it was too organized to be anything else._

 _She'd already scrambled back from the front line, wisely booking it when the first of Jary's missiles struck the Door. The last thing she wanted was to be impaled by a flying shard of ice or shrapnel, and there was still more than enough to handle further back._

 _And she was_ loving _it. For once it wasn't rage that drove her violence - it was the gleeful fearlessness that child had reminded her still lurked in her mind. She might be no goddess, but that wasn't stopping her doing an insane amount of damage, and for once it wasn't draining her. The energy-threads of her foes were so markedly different from those of her allies that it wasn't_ _difficult to sort them out, and it meant she could pull and tear with abandon, like a little telekinetic Cuisinart._

 _Her hair was coming loose from its braid, sticking to her sweaty face - she was definitely warm enough now, warm and so very alive, and she actually laughed, her breath rising around her like a frosty halo. This was better than any drug she'd ever tried, this heady flame that glowed in her mind, and through her odd euphoria an old bit of rhyme struck her -_ I burn my candle at both ends, it will not last the night. But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends - it gives a lovely light _. It was a sharp and terrible loveliness, all the stronger because it stood out so bright amid so much darkness._

 _Something grabbed her arm, something she recognized instantly as an ally, dragging her back as fast as it could, and when she looked up she saw it was Sharley's father, Azarael._

 _"Run," he said, the word distinct even through the deafening din, and she did - it was that or have her arm yanked right out of its socket. He was even harder to keep up with than Von Ratched had been, but she didn't bother to question him._

 _He pulled her into a knot of retreating gods, and when she stumbled he picked her up like she was no more than a child - which she was, compared to him. Once they'd reached the center of the crowd he put one freezing hand over her eyes._

 _"Duck," he said, "and don't look."_

 _Of course she immediately wanted to look, but before she could so much as speak there came a sudden silence—_

 _-and then something flashed so bright she saw it even through Azarael's hand, followed by a boom loud enough to almost rupture her eardrums before it passed completely beyond the range of her hearing, so loud and so massive it pounded through her chest harder than her heart. What in hell—_

 _He took his hand away in time for her to see it: where the Door had stood there was a goddamn_ mushroom cloud, _a thing so tall it must have reached the stratosphere, rocking the ships that had fled so far away she could scarcely see them. She suddenly knew why Azarael had grabbed her - if he hadn't shielded her the blast would have torn her apart._

 _It was certainly destroying the ice - they'd got back a good ten miles by then, and it was a damn good thing, because the ice was breaking apart in a roaring landslide, dropping everything on it into the sea. Jesus fucking Christ, was it going to be radiation poisoning that got her? And the twins—_

 _"Will be fine," Azarael said, looking gravely down at her. "They are well shielded within Jary's ship, as is your friend the oracle."_

 _"Radiation's - not the way I want to go," she managed, her words almost lost in the chaos that had resumed almost instantly._

 _"It will not be," he said, just as gravely. "You have very little time left here, Lorna, before you move to another battleground. I will stay near you, to ease what will come."_

 _"Why?" she asked, shaking her head a little and wondering of the flame within her mind remained - and found that it did, low though it burned._

 _"You aided my daughter," he returned. "And not only out of obligation. You did her and I a great service, and I would return it, small a blessing though I might give."_

 _She didn't know what to say to that, nor did she have any time - her circle of protectors had rapidly disbanded, and the monstrosities attacked once more. Fewer this time, but that wasn't saying much, and the ice was still rumbling so hard it was difficult for her to keep her balance. She wondered vaguely where Von Ratched was, if someone had shielded him or if he'd gone and got himself nuked. Somehow she doubted it was the latter._

 _And she was right. He was tall enough that she could spot him briefly through the melee, and he seemed to be having as good a time as she. He would, she thought dryly; this really was right up his alley._

 _She barely had time to dodge before an enormous, bearded redheaded man swung a hammer almost as big as her at the creature behind her - good fucking God, was that_ Thor? _He was followed by an equally huge woman with a bicolored face, half white and half deep blue, her eyes bright and completely mad, and a whole herd of women tall and blonde as Miranda had been. They sliced and diced their way through the shrieking monsters like some kind of divine blender, and if they weren't Valkyries Lorna would eat her own shoe. Azarael was one thing, but seeing gods she recognized from mythology was so surreal she couldn't have processed it if she'd tried. If it weren't for the rising flame in her mind she would have wondered just what she was doing among them, but the fire and euphoria were rising once more._

 _Somewhere above, the sky grew brighter - another ship was aflame, and she glanced up, hoping it wasn't going to fall on her head. It was a brief glance, but it cost her dearly._

 _For it was just long enough for one of the zombie-things to slip past her radar and bowl right into her, impacting so hard it sent her vision white, driving all the breath from her and nearly sending her overbalancing backward. Her eye struggled to focus, and had barely managed when something cold and sharp gouged into her neck like a fistful of razors. It hurt so much she didn't even notice when something tore the thing away from her, sending its pieces flying._

 _The pain lasted only a moment, though. The wound, her shoulder, and then her entire left side went numb, frozen as the snow beneath her feet, though something hot and salty filled her throat and almost made her gag._

Blood, _she thought - a weirdly detached thought, as though it was not hers at all._ Her _blood, choking copper in her mouth, stinging in her sinuses as she fought for breath she could not draw. Oh God, this was not how she'd wanted to die—_

 _She had no awareness of falling, but suddenly there was hard ice beneath her back, driving even more cold through her. The lights of the circling ships twinkled bright in her blurred vision, and what little of her could think simply refused to accept that this was it, that this was how she died. She tried and tried to breathe and only succeeded in drawing blood down into her lungs, making her cough and hack as it welled hot between her lips._

 _Something blotted out the lights, some great shadow her eye could not focus on, and she instinctively struck out at it, only to have an icy hand catch her wrist in a grip that was surprisingly gentle. Azarael's eyes swam into clarity above hers, brighter than the burning ship, and now she didn't feel any need to struggle. It was impossible to fight the inevitable with Death literally staring her in the face._

 _"Rest now, Lorna," he said, as her vision darkened until his eyes were the only thing she could see. It didn't hurt now; even the cold was fading, as everything around her blurred away from her awareness. "Rest before your own battle, and return when you have won."_

 _She tried to say something - just what, she never did know - but darkness took her before she could speak, warm darkness where there was no pain._

Lorna woke with a jerk, and would have fallen off the elk of not for Thranduil's hold on her. _God_ , that one had been way, way, _way_ too real.

"Pull over," she croaked, but scrambled off the elk before Thranduil had a chance to halt the animal, landing hard on her knees and sicking up into the trampled earth. Bile stung in her sinuses, and made her retch again.

For such a tall person, he certainly could land light on his feet. "Lorna, what is it?" he asked, gathering back her hair before she could sick up in it.

She spat, swigged some water from her canteen, and spat again, shivering violently, although the day was quite warm. Horror the like of which she had never known gripped her with iron claws – and that was really saying something.

"I just –" she tried, and failed. Her heart felt like it was actually trying to lurch its way out of her throat, choking her along the way, her nerves misfiring as adrenaline dumped into her veins with nowhere to go. "I just saw my own death," she said. "How I would've died…there. The other universe." She touched her throat, half convinced her fingers would come away bloody. "Christ, Thranduil, what does that _mean_?"

"Hopefully, nothing," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Thus far one of your other dreams have been connected to this world." She could need the worry in his eyes, though, even if no one else could.

"I need a drink," she said, spitting again. "All the drinks. All the drinks in the world."

"If you have one now, you'll have to stop for a bathroom rest every ten minutes," he said, helping her to her feet. "You will not die, Lorna," he added in Irish. "I will not let you."

Lorna wished he could guarantee that.

* * *

Yeah, Lorna, you'd better hope nothing comes of that.

Title means "Visions" in Irish. As always, reviews keep me going, and let me know people are still reading.


	7. Gcloiseann tú ar Na Daoine a Chanadh

Short-ish chapter, because the next one is going to be quite long. In which Sharley reaches a decision, Von Ratched can't quite believe what he's actually hooked up with, and the Elves sing _Les Miserables_. Why? Because they can.

* * *

Late one night, seated beneath a starry sky, Sharley cast her mind about and along the various Time-lines, and did not at all like what she saw.

They'd known for weeks that Sauron was on the move, but he'd been headed north in a mostly straight line. Now, though, he seemed to be detouring, headed for Mirkwood and the Grey Mountains beyond – why? What did he think he would find? She strongly doubted he'd divert his entire damn army just to see what she'd done to Angmar. What did he know that she didn't? Or did he not truly _know_ , anything, but was acting off instinct?

"I need to go ahead," she said, her eyes fixed on the moon, "and you need to go west for a bit, around Sauron's army. I'll catch up with you once I've distracted him enough."

 _"You hope,"_ Jimmy muttered.

Gandalf was the only one still awake, and when she looked at him, she found him watching her curiously from beneath his truly impressive eyebrows. "What have you seen?"

"I don't rightly know. His army's trajectory has shifted a bit, and I've got to hit it before it hits Mirkwood. And probably let Sauron chew on my mind a while, for all the good it'll do him."

The old wizard's expression went grave. "You should not speak so lightly of that," he said. "I know you are something…different…but Sauron is as old as Time, a creature of pure evil. He will break you."

"I was born broken," she said. "My oh-so-loving father calls me an abomination, and he's not wrong. My mind'll give Sauron something to choke on, if only for a little while, and it's not like I don't have eternity fix it," she added bitterly.

"I hope you know what you are doing," he said.

"I never know what I'm doing. Geezer would tell you that the future is set, but Time's a lot more malleable than you'd think. All sorts of things can shift it." Far more than she was comfortable with, really.

"Including you?" Gandalf asked, his eyes even more piercing than they usually were.

"If I dared," Sharley sighed, "which I don't. You're a wizard – you ought to understand how damn easy it is to break things. The problem is not breaking absolutely everything, and knowing how to fix it if you go too far. If I'm lucky I can manage the first, but the second is totally beyond me. And it's not like there's anyone who could teach me, because again, abomination. I'm mostly just a watcher."

"You did something to Angmar," he pointed out.

"Angmar was the ass-end of nowhere to begin with, and I had no other choice. If there had actually been _people_ there, I woulda killed them all. In all my life, all my years of doing this, I've never killed anyone. Not anyone who counts as a person, anyway." The only way she could reconcile what she had done to the orcs in Angmar and the Grey Mountains was to tell herself that they hadn't actually been people.

There was both sorrow and pity in Gandalf's ancient eyes. "You will have to, before all is over," he said.

"I know," she sighed, except that wasn't entirely true. She had the Stranger for that, and for all she hated the thing, it had its uses. So far as she knew, it had never killed anyone either, but she couldn't be sure. She really didn't want to know.

She would leave in the morning, and go hunt down Sauron. She had to admit, in spite of everything, she was curious.

She wondered what would happen when he met the Stranger.

* * *

Lorna spent the next few days unusually subdued, and it worried Thranduil.

She was usually troubled the morning after a dream of might-have-been, for it seemed that much of her life there had been rather awful. However, it had been four days since her nightmare, and still she was visibly disturbed.

But then, she _had_ just seen a vision of her own death, even if it was not as it would eventually happen in this world. Perhaps he should not worry too much, but he couldn't help it. Lorna usually had two main modes, as she might put it: snark and sleep. And occasionally, as she so crudely put it, horny. Such silence from her was unnatural, and _wrong_.

On the fifth day, he broke down and gave her a flask of wine with breakfast. She sipped it while the sun rose, and kept sipping it when the air warmed and they set off, sitting unsteady on the elk – he truly did have to hold her in place for once. She was still quiet at first, but at least now she was relaxed. The pinched lines of worry left her face, which was even browner after so much travel, the premature threads of silver in her hair almost glowing in the sunlight. He would swear they'd advanced in the last eleven months.

"Hey Thranduil," she said, tilting her head back to look up at him, "I know a song that gets on everybody's nerves, it pisses people off and it's really quite absurd –"

He groaned. "I would much prefer the song about eating brains," he said. "You could probably get everyone around you to join the chorus. Just, for Eru's sake, don't start with _Les Miserables_."

Beside them, Von Ratched actually snorted. "You are joking."

"I wish," Thranduil said grimly.

"You haven't lived until you've heard a dining-hall full'v Elves sing 'Do You Hear the People Sing'," Lorna snickered.

"Yes, well, I could do without living, if it meant being spared _that_ ," he said, fighting an urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"'One Day More' is even better," she said. "I assigned everyone parts. If they were all here, I'd totally start it."

"Of course you would. Keep drinking," Thranduil ordered. "Forget that idea."

Her eyes narrowed. "Do you hear the people sing," she sang, remarkably in-tune for someone who'd gone through a quarter of a bottle of Dorwinion already. She shouldn't be _conscious_. "Singing the song of angry men? It is the music of a people who will not be slaves again."

Behind them, Menelwen's sweet soprano joined in: "When the beating of your heart, echoes the beating of a drum –"

"—there is life about to start when tomorrow comes," Lorna finished.

Thranduil rubbed his temples. There was no stopping it now.

Faelon's rich voice sounded from further back: "Will you join in our crusade, who will be strong and stand with me?"

Beside him, Beleg: "Beyond the barricade, is there a world you long to see?"

"Then join in the fight that will give you the right to be free!" Lorna added, or tried to; she was laughing too hard to properly get it out.

Naturally, the chorus, several hundred voices strong: "DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING?"

Several hundred more took it up beyond them "—SINGING THE SONG OF ANGRY MEN!"

The first group, once more: "IT IS THE MUSIC OF A PEOPLE WHO WILL NOT BE SLAVES AGAIN!"

And now, Eru help him (and his eardrums), possibly a full thousand: " _WHEN THE BEATING OF YOUR HEART, ECHOES THE BEATING OF THE DRUMS,_ _ **THERE IS A LIFE ABOUT TO START WHEN TOMORROW COMES**_ _!_ "

By now, Lorna was laughing so hard she'd almost fallen off the elk, even with his support. At least Von Ratched's expression of complete and utter disbelief almost made it worth it. _Almost_.

Thranduil looked down at Lorna. "Are you happy now?" he asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Ecstatic," she giggled. At least she looked it, her eyes alive and filled with mirth and the shine of alcohol.

"I certainly hope so. Now they will be doing this the rest of the way home."

"They _will_?" Von Ratched asked, blatantly appalled.

" _DO YOU HEAR THE PEOPLE SING? SINGING THE SONG OF ANGRY MEN!_ "

"I believe that is all the answer you need," Thranduil sighed.

Even with the impromptu _Les Miserables_ show tunes, the rest of the trip north was surprisingly calm, considering they were following the trail of the goddamn Dark Lord.

He seemed to be taking his sweet time about it, too, or so it seemed to Lorna; they actually had to stop for a few days at two points, so as not to, as she'd put it, crawl up his arsehole. Even now, she often didn't think about how long it actually took to get anywhere in a word without cars.

"You are a child of the electronic age," Von Ratched said. To her annoyance, he would occasionally join her and Thranduil at their campfire – though at least it was only occasionally. Their bedroom/tent-room antics often kept him and everyone else at bay.

"There was electricity when you were born," she said. If he thought his age would be some manner of revelation to her, he was due to be disappointed.

"Not anything near what the world we left has," he pointed out, not missing a beat. "Yours is the last generation to come of age in an analog world, but when I was young, _analog_ barely existed. Though it was far more than Middle-Earth possesses."

Thranduil was looking at Von Ratched with a curiosity she did not at all like. When he'd first looked into her mind all those months ago, he'd been fascinated by what he saw of Earth in her memories, but she hadn't known the details of how things like cars worked. Von Ratched was much older, and far better educated – he probably knew about a great many things she didn't.

"Thranduil," she warned.

"I was not _actually_ going to do anything," he said, but he was still looking at Von Ratched.

Lorna kicked him lightly. "Don't you remember what happened last time?" she asked.

"Of course I do," he retorted. "That does not mean I cannot wonder."

"So long as wondering's _all_ you do."

Von Ratched's eyes flicked from one to the other, curious and, she would swear, just a little unsettled. Thranduil did tend to have that effect on people, no matter how arrogant they were. So far, the only people who seemed immune to him were Galadriel and Sharley – Galadriel because she was, well, _Galadriel_ , and Sharley was both dead and incredibly creepy herself, the poor girl. Plus, if Lorna's dream/vision had been accurate, the woman's father was _Death._ It would be hard to be intimidated by much of anything, with a parent like that.

"I'm going to bed," she said. "Thranduil, you coming with me?"

He arched an eyebrow. "Of course, Dilthen Ettelëa."

It was very, very minute, but Lorna would swear Von Ratched twitched.

* * *

So, wait. Just wait. What happens when you get Sauron's army, nine thousand Elves singing West End show tunes, and Sharley all in one place? You're about to find out.

Title means "Do you hear the people sing" in Irish. As always, your reviews are love, and let me know if I'm still doing this right nor not.


	8. Iomaíocht

In which battle is joined, Sauron meets Sharley (and the Stranger), Thranduil enjoys himself a little too much, and the dead prove useful in ways none of the living considered.

* * *

The Valar, Sharley decided, were either fucking stupid, total sadists, or completely uninterested in the goings-on in Middle Earth. She'd never heard of deities this disconnected, and she'd known a few.

She'd been racing flat-out for the last five days, but no matter how fast she ran, hopping over rocks and fording streams, the lines of potentiality kept collapsing. She didn't need to rest and she didn't need to eat, but still, each thread led to a single heavy cable: Sauron's army was going to run into her at almost the exact same time Thranduil's ran into _it_. They wouldn't realize it until it was too late just where the damn thing had shifted course.

From there the cable split again, but each potentiality was just as much of a clusterfuck as the last. Thranduil's army would hit Sauron's like the very surprised fist of an angry god, but Sharley had to keep the bastard distracted, or everyone who wasn't already dead would die. Which was going to suck no matter what, but still, she was curious.

She hadn't met many other gods. And this one actually knew what he was doing.

So onward she ran, through moonlight now, the soft, _living_ breeze of Middle-Earth catching in her ponytail. Never would she get used to how alive, how _young_ this world was, and never would she let Sauron change that, if she at all had it in her power. And even if she didn't, she'd give him something to think about.

The sword couldn't kill him, so long as the Ring was around. But it would hurt like a bitch.

* * *

They were still a little over a fortnight away, and Lorna was beyond ready to be home – even if they _did_ have Von Ratched with them. She wanted her own bed, dammit.

She doubted Sharley would still be there, so her kidney bean babies would have to stay kidney beans, but at least she could _see_ them. They could fortify their shit, and wait for whatever was going to hit them to actually get there. Which would be shitty and nerve-wracking, but at least they'd be _home_.

Thranduil, however, was nervous, though she was the only one who would have spotted it. His scouts had reported that they had no idea just what Sauron's army was doing, other than not what it should be, apparently. Until it picked a direction, the only smart thing they could do was sit – but if he headed for Mirkwood, they'd have to try to cut him off, stupid or not.

"What happens if they run into our, um, delivery boys?" she asked, shivering. They'd been pushing the horses harder, which meant she'd spent several very cold nights on the elk, huddled under Thranduil's cloak. Dawn had broken not long before, and he had been muttering to himself about stupid, unpredictable Dark Lords.

"Then we all die," he said sourly.

Lorna looked up at him, peeking around the edge of his cloak. In the pale light it looked like he'd been carved of marble, inhuman and inhumanly beautiful. Pity the effect was spoiled by the hickey just behind his jaw. She really had to stop giving him those where other people could see, but he just bruised so _pretty_. "You'd better not doe, mister," she said. "We've got kidney bean children at home, and I don't want to be a single mother."

As she'd hoped, it made him laugh, in his silent, 'I'm a king in front of other people' way. "I will endeavor not to leave you alone with our legume children," he said, "if you promise to do the same."

"Like hell I'll die now," she said, sitting up properly and stretching, barely avoiding whacking Thranduil in the jaw with her elbow. Her vertebrae cracked like a line of firecrackers.

"That is _disgusting_ ," he said.

"Blame whoever designed the human spine," Lorna grumbled. "It never has been the same since the wreck."

"I would hope the spine of an Edain is not _meant_ to sound like that," he said dryly. "Stretch, and when we rest the horses, have Menelwen run you through yours sword drill again."

"Do I _have_ to?" she whined, shivering. The air outside her cloak-tent was even chillier than she'd thought, and damp, though the sky was clear. "If it ever comes down to a point where I'd actually have to use the sword, I'd be dead anyway."

"Stop complaining," he ordered, glowering down at her.

"But I'm so _good_ at it," she protested, fighting a smile.

"That you are. You are not, however, good with your sword, a problem which must be remedied," he said, attempting to sound stern. It never actually worked with her.

"You're no fun," she said. "Fine. But I need to pee first." Cramps dragged at her abdomen, which warned her the Communists would be around to visit fairly. She hoped like hell they wouldn't come knocking during the battle, or that would be _really_ embarrassing.

As always, finding someplace that provided even half-assed coverage wasn't easy, and when she hopped down from the elk, swearing all the while, she had to hunker down behind a torn-up stump. Peeing outside on a chilly morning would never be high on her list of fun things to do. At least she had not yet fallen to the Reds, though she stuck an ST into her knickers anyway, just to be safe.

"You look ready to murder someone," Thranduil said, with one of his faint almost-smiles.

"That time of the month is on its way," she growled. "If we run into Sauron, I might just kill him with my bare bloody hands."

"Would these hands be bloody in a literal or metaphorical sense?" he asked, now looking both worried and disturbed.

"Pick one."

Von Ratched looked poised to say something, but Thranduil shook his head.

"I wouldn't," he said. "I really wouldn't."

"Smart Elf," Lorna said, patting his arm. "I want to go home. Let's go crawl up Sauron's arsehole."

Thranduil actually, in his incredibly understated way, made a face. "Please do not ever say that again," he said. "The mental image is possibly more horrible than reality would be. Besides, given how many spikes his armor has, you would never make it anyway."

Lorna burst out laughing, unable to help herself. "Good point. All right, then what _do_ we do?"

"Press on," he said, swinging her back up onto the elk, " _slowly_. I do not want him in my forest, but once his army is near, we have the advantage. We must continue moving around him, once he actually picks a direction. Never would I have thought him indecisive."

"Maybe he isn't," Von Ratched said. "Maybe there are simply two things that have caught his attention."

"I really hope that's not as bad a thing as I'm afraid it is," she said, sinking her hands into the elk's fur for warmth.

"I sincerely hope one of them is Sharley," Thranduil said. "If nothing else, she can keep him occupied."

Lorna really didn't want to think about just how she'd do that. Though she kind of wanted to see it.

* * *

Sauron had not intended to alter his route, but he had felt…something. Something as alien as the immortal Edain he hunted – but in a very different way. It felt, in fact, like whatever had destroyed Angmar. Whatever it was – _who_ ever it was – he wanted it. Such a thing or creature could not help but be useful, whether it wanted to be or not. Once he had it, it would ally with him willingly, or he would break it. And he did not even need to hunt it, for it was coming his way.

His host made camp for the day, for he was unwilling to spend any of its strength under the light of the sun. Though they had not reached Mirkwood, there were enough scattered trees for the orcs to shelter beneath. Their limitations irked him, but he had yet to find a way around them. Even Morgoth had not, but there was some way, and he would find it, in time.

He himself had no such limitations, though he too hated the sun. It was westering now as he strode through the grass, the smoke of so many campfires filtering it in such a way as to make it stain all around him red. The orcs were stirring, casting off their sluggishness, and the strange, alien thing moved ever closer, climbing up a rise of scrub and granite to meet him.

When it crested the rise, he was almost disappointed – at first. A woman it was, Edain by the look of her, tall and pale and scarred, with vivid blue hair and a sword nearly as long as she was tall strapped to her back.

But she was not just an Edain – she was not _Edain_ at all. There was an inhuman stillness about her, and he realized that she drew no breath, and no heart beat within her chest. She was not one of the Maiar, nor scion of Maiar or Valar; she truly was alien, and incredibly powerful – it hummed about her skin like lightning, bringing the scent of an oncoming thunderstorm.

But, not, he thought, as powerful as he. She could be taken, and broken, and remade into his weapon.

She tilted her head, watching him with that odd stillness, blatant curiosity in her expression. If she was afraid, she betrayed no sign of it – but if she did not know who he was, she might not know she should be afraid.

When he approached her, signaling his host to remain behind, she spoke, but he could not understand her tongue. Her curiosity visibly intensified as he drew near, and she swung the sword from her back, drawing it in a movement that looked more practiced than natural. She was not at home with this weapon.

He stopped. This creature, whatever she was, might not outmatch him in power, but that weapon –

Never, ever, in all his very long life, had he seen such a thing. What it radiated was beyond power: this was a base element of the Universe given physical form. It was _cold_ , so very old, frigid as the void. Were it not for the fact that the Ring was still at large, he would have feared it.

He wanted it. And he wanted it now.

His eyes flicked back to the woman. At this near distance, he saw that her own did not match, and the intrigue in them bordered on unholy. Perhaps she was as fascinated by him as he was by her. Such a pity he could no longer change form. Perhaps she might have been willingly persuaded.

He reached for the blade, his gauntlet-clad hand so much larger than hers, but she swung it around and sliced right into his side, the edge cutting through his armor like spider-silk.

And it _hurt_.

Sauron had not felt true pain since the fall of Númenor, and the shock of it enraged him. The woman's swing had been downright amateurish, and he caught her arm before she could do it again, squeezing so hard it ought to have ground her bones to powder. By now he was unsurprised to find it did nothing at all, but she dropped the sword, and he caught it before it could hit the ground.

Another stab of pain lanced through him, slicing all the way up his arm and into his chest. He released the blade immediately, glaring at her with eyes she could not see, and she _smiled_ at him.

He seized her by the throat, lifting her full off the ground, but as she had no breath to cut off, it made little difference. Even through the gauntlet, something about touching her was so revolting that he nearly dropped her, too, but he did not. He might be unable to break her body, through force or through pain, but her mind was another matter entirely.

Before he entered it, though, her eyes flicked over his shoulder, and something very like annoyance flickered through them.

"Well, _fuck_ ," she sighed.

He turned, still gripping her throat, and saw the vanguard of a distant host approach – Elves and walking dead, thousands of both. He ought to have destroyed Minas Tirith, but he never would have thought they would be foolish enough to _follow_ him.

"Well, that's unfortunate," his prisoner muttered.

He turned his attention back to her, and found her tapping her temple. "Let's get this over with."

This creature, this insolent, maddening _creature_ – he would break her, would make her beg to whatever gods she had. He might be unable to kill her, but he could leave her naught but a hollow shell.

 _Her mind, he found, was already broken, cracked and shattered in places, with patches of inexplicable darkness. It was a place of dull red sky and dry, dying forests, hot and arid, smelling faintly metallic. Oh yes, she_ was _alien – this was her world, the land that had spat her into his._

 _Her inner self sat on a stone, sharpening that terrible sword, and this time, when she spoke, he understood her._

 _"Welcome to the Other," she said. "You'd be right at home here, although I'm glad you're not. Feel free to look around, but I wouldn't go over the Edge – eve_ n I _don't like what's out there, and it_ is _me."_

 _Sauron grabbed her throat again, for all the good it would do him, and discovered he had not a gauntlet, but an actual hand._

 _"Thought you might like being you again for a while," she said, arching an eyebrow, "although your technique needs work. Einstein defined insanity as repeating the same thing over and over and expecting a different result."_

 _He released her, disgusted as much by her words as her touch. "I will_ break _you," he spat._

 _"Yeah, good luck with that," she said, scrambling back up onto her perch. "Been there, done that. Though I'm betting you'll bring something new to the table, at least."_

 _"What_ are _you?" he demanded. How strange it was, to have his own voice again, after so very long._

 _She shrugged. "Dunno," she said. "Me. Now are you gonna start tearing shit up, or what? Hell, you might have fun just exploring for a while. Other's an interesting place, and it's not like it can kill_ you. _"_

 _He was going to have to do the latter, if he had any hope of doing the former. This might just be the most ridiculous thing he had ever done._

* * *

"I don't know if you've noticed, but there's a huge-ass army ahead," Lorna said. "I thought they were supposed to have turned."

"They _did_ ," Thranduil said. "Just not in the right direction." This was going to be terrible, no matter what they did. It didn't matter if they halted their approach – night was falling fast, and with it would come the orcs. "Lorna, whatever happens, stay with me. This will not be like fighting Nazgûl – this is unlike anything you have ever seen, and I will be very put out with you if you die."

"Me too." Even in the light of the sunset she looked pale – which was a good thing, really. He would have been worried if she were not. "Can I stay on the elk?"

"You have to." It would make her a target for every archer in Sauron's host, but it was better than being trampled on the ground. Greater height meant greater ability to use her telekinesis, or so he hoped. "However, you must get behind me. I cannot properly wield my sword if you remain where you are."

"You do realize this means I'm going to hang onto your cloak and choke you to death, right?" she asked, looking anxiously up at him.

"Please try not to," he said dryly. "If I am to die, I would rather it not be at the hands of my allies, much less my wife."

Her expression turned thoughtful. "Hey Thranduil, have you ever been choked while you were having sex?"

" _What?_ " he demanded, eyebrows rising almost to his hairline. " _Why_ would I want to do that?"

"It's kinda fun," she said, grinning at him. "If we survive this, I'll demonstrate."

"Dilthen Ettelëa, there are times I think you truly are insane."

"You're so sweet."

* * *

Lorna didn't want to admit it, even to Thranduil, but she was scared shitless. Yeah, she had her telekinesis, but she'd never used it like _this_ before. Trees held still, and there had only been five Nazgûl.

Not to mention, it was getting dark really damn fast. The moon was just barely waxing, so how the hell was she to tell friend from foe at any distance? The eye-stinging haze of smoke from so many camp fires wasn't helping at all, either – there was a scent of burning meat on the air, and she really didn't know what it was coming from.

She hopped down from the elk, and Thranduil helped her put on the armor that made her feel totally ridiculous. Of course _he_ looked great in his, exactly like a King ought to, but, though hers fit well, it still felt unnatural. At least the steel was mostly plain, without all the pretty, swirly whatevers wound out about his.

"I can't breathe in this," she complained, when he cinched some buckle or other.

"If you had better posture, it wouldn't bother you," he said. "You sometimes slouch terribly, even for an Edain."

"Shut it, you," she said, wincing. She felt, well, like she'd been shoved into a tin can. She really ought to have practiced wearing this stuff on the road.

"You cannot exactly tell me I am _wrong_ ," he said, standing back to inspect her. "You'll do."

"I sure as hell hope so. If I kick the bucket in this thing, all this discomfort will be for no damn reason at all," she grumbled.

Thranduil gave her a rather dry smile, and kissed the crown of her head. "Stay with me and you will be fine," he said.

 _I'd better be_ , Lorna thought, watching him stride off among the troops, armor glinting in the light of torches brought from God knew where. It was easy sometimes for her to forget that he was a _king_ , so when he had to be truly regal for something, it always came as a shock. He was taller than most of the other Elves, so even when he was out of her direct sight she could track his progress by his pale hair, rendered red in the torchlight. Wherever he went, a strange paradox of calm and anticipation followed him.

She was so busy watching him that she didn't notice Von Ratched until he was right beside her. "We can do something about this battle," he said, "before it even begins, but you must be willing to trust me."

Lorna looked up at him. He had no armor, but unlike the Elves, she didn't think he needed any, he was so good with his telekinesis. "And why the hell would I do that?"

"Because, while we are not outnumbered, _Sauron_ waits at the other side of that army," he said. The torchlight mirrored off his pale eyes in a way that was downright unnatural. "We can take out the vanguard before it ever reaches our army. I know you have the strength, even if you lack the skill."

It was a good idea, but there was no way in hell she was going with him by herself. "We should take some'v the dead, too, if they'll come." She couldn't imagine why they wouldn't. "And I've got to tell Thranduil."

"Do you _really_ think he would let you go?" Von Ratched demanded.

"There's no 'letting' in our relationship, Von Arsehole," she said. "It's not like either'v us could stop the other anyway. And if he doesn't trust that I'll come back to him, it would surprise me. By now, he surely couldn't be such a fool. She hoped.

Unfortunately, she was wrong. Once they'd shoved their way through the crowd and actually found him, the glare he bent on Von Ratched was nothing short of murderous.

"I have already sent some of the dead before us," he said. "The pair of you separating from the army now would be lunacy. Lorna, do you not remember what happened when you spent so much power at once on the Nazgûl? You were ill for days. If you attack the orcs a few at a time, your strength will last longer."

"Yeah, but they were _Nazgûl_ ," she protested. "Five of the fuckers. Orcs are…orcs."

He looked like he wanted to forbid it, but he was smarter than that now. "And if you lose consciousness out there, with _him_?" he asked in Irish. "This could well be a ploy to separate you from us, and you cannot fight a war on both fronts."

"Why the hell would he want to do that? He knows you'd hunt him down without remorse."

Thranduil's eyes flicked briefly to Von Ratched. "I do not know, but I wish you would not go with him."

It really was unfair that his zombie-eyes could give her such a puppy-dog expression. How was that even _possible_?

"Oh, god dammit," she sighed. "You're on your own for now, Von Ratched. I'll catch up."

He didn't actually roll his eyes, but she could tell he wanted to. "Fine. You people and your _marriage_." He stalked off, and Lorna burst out laughing.

"Could he have _sounded_ more like a five-year-old? You'd think we had cooties or something."

Thranduil actually _did_ roll his eyes. "Come, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said. "It is nearly time."

That brought her nerves back in full force as she followed him to the elk, butterflies throwing a rave in her gut. And yet the adrenaline coursing through her was not only from fear – whatever odd magic he had worked on the Elves seemed to have touched her as well, for she felt a strange sense of anticipation. She wasn't anything close to a warrior, but she _was_ a fighter, and had been all her life. Surely the last eleven months couldn't have made her go _that_ soft.

Thranduil boosted her up onto the elk, and when she looked around, that odd anticipation lurched in her heart, not at all unpleasantly. The torchlight shone on the gleaming armor of nine thousand goddamned Elves, for once lined up like an actual army, almost as far back as she could see. Among them were the pallid, bloody-eyed dead, unarmed but needing no weapons – and unlike the Elves, their expression were actively hostile, thirsting for blood they could not longer shed themselves. They made a horrifying counterpoint to the Elves, who were so alive and uniform; the only uniform the dead wore were the traces of the disease that killed them.

Lorna shuddered, and yet even they somehow fueled her growing desire to hit something until it stopped moving. Somewhere within her was the rage that had sustained her for the first thirty-three years of her life – that had kept her alive when she ought to have, if not died, at least been beaten.

She thought of her Da, the crack of his skull against the pavement, the sight of his brain leaking out through the hole in his skull. She hadn't killed him on purpose, and yet the sight had filled her with a strange, almost delirious vindication – he'd killed Mam, if not directly. Justice had been done.

And justice would be done again. _There_ was the rage, singing in her veins, but it was not like it had always been – she could control it now, rather than let it control her. It reminded her that she was alive, and would _stay_ alive, come hell or high water – and so would all around her, if she had anything to say about it. And she damn well did.

She grinned down at Thranduil, so beautiful and ancient in the red glow from the torches. "Come on, Drag Queen Barbie," she said. "Let's go make something dead."

* * *

Sharley was having an immense amount of fun following Sauron around inside her head, in spite of the rather considerable damage he was doing. So far he hadn't broken anything that hadn't been broken at least once already – though he was starting to give her a headache, which shouldn't actually be _possible_.

She was perfectly happy to let him stomp around, too, since if he was busy with her, he _wasn't_ busy with anything else outside.

Finally, remarkably exasperated, he turned on her. He really had been unfortunately attractive before he got sucked down with Númenor, which was probably why he had gotten away with so much shit – hair black as night, his skin as pale as hers, except, you know, _alive_ , and a face too perfect to be real. " _Why_ are you not breaking?" he demanded.

"Dude, I was _born_ broken. All this," she said, waving her arms around at the uneven landscape, the odd patches of darkness, "nobody _did_ this to me. A few people have made it worse, but I was never whole to begin with. I'm sure there's something in here you can smash, and I want to see it when you find it. Whatever it even is."

His piecing grey eyes actually looked annoyed. "Would it happen to lay over the Edge?"

Sharley froze. "No," she said. "Neither one of us wants to deal with what's over the Edge."

He gave her a smile that was absolutely wicked. "I am far too curious to stop now," he said, brushing past her.

" _Motherfucker_ ," she sighed. There would be no stopping him, no matter how much she wanted to. She felt the phantom pounding of the heartbeat she no longer had, the ghost of adrenaline pumping through her bloodless veins. This was absolutely going to suck, for _both_ of them.

She hurried after him, over the bumps and ridges of earth long ago twisted and upheaved. The red heat of the Other no longer made her sweat, and the thinness of its breathless air no longer choked her, but the memory of both still lingered in her mind. She knew that they _ought_ to. And it was going to be so much worse over the Edge.

In the actual Other, the Edge's full name was the Edge of the Real, and few enough dared cross it. Akathisia's War had almost shattered reality in the entirety of the Other, and what had been scraped together again wasn't enough to go around. Consequently there was the Real, where everything actually capable of life in the Other lived, and everything beyond the Edge, about which even her father knew little. Aelis's dead stayed there, but they were pretty tight-lipped about it, and nobody else, not even her father and foster-mother, willingly crossed it unless they had absolutely no other choice.

Naturally, in Sharley's mental Other, it would be where the Stranger lived. Normally She took very great care to _keep_ it there, but if anything could let the damn thing out, it would be _Sauron._

Shit.

The ground over the Edge was barren, nothing but sharp, jet-black rock that often crumbled underfoot. It was hotter here, despite being further from the sun, the metallic tang harsher on the air. The Stranger was bound not far away, and despite the fact that she knew this could only end terribly, Sharley was curious to see what Sauron would make of it.

What worried her was what _it_ would make of _him_.

* * *

Weirdly, the orcs did not at first make any effort to rush the oncoming Elven army. Never had Thranduil see even a small group of them so still, unless they were laying siege to something. Now they just…stood, bathed in the light of their own torches, gleaming off their motley assortment of swords and knives.

"Why hell're they just _sitting_ there?" Lorna asked, peering around him. "That's not normal, is it?"

"No," he said, scanning the horizon for something, _anything_ – oh.

Oh. Well, that would explain it. Either Sauron found Sharley, or Sharley found him. Whichever the case, he seemed to be happily attempting to throttle her, and failing. In that case they might as well press on, while they had any small advantage at all. The orcs would charge them sooner or later, and the pikemen could take care of whatever the dead did not.

The dead, who were truly unnerving him. They were not so silent as Elves, but they were quiet enough, shades that moved through the sparse trees. The moonlight only made their deathly pallor even more sickly, rendering the blood on their faces black. They were all the worse, somehow, because there was nothing ethereal about them; wraiths, being not wholly of this world, looked as unearthly as they were, but these dead were solid, their fëa still firmly anchored to a hröa that moved but did not breathe. In their own way they were worse even than Sharley, for while she carried great sorrow, these dead radiated wrath a palpable force. Thranduil wondered how many orcs would even be left for the living.

He knew the exact moment they reached Sauron's host, for a horrifying scream split the air – it was briefly a sound of terror, but it shifted almost immediately to one of complete agony, drawn out until it cut off abruptly.

" _Jesus_ ," Lorna breathed.

It was replaced by dozens more, then scores, and the elk shifted uneasily. The shrieking echoed off the trees, and though Lorna wouldn't be able to hear it, truly disgusting, tearing, _chewing_ sounds reached his ears.

The sound must have gotten through to Sauron, for he dropped Sharley, turning to face them, and for a moment Thranduil was utterly paralyzed with terror. Memory of another, older battlefield seized him, gripping his heart and his mind –

A small, Edain-warm hand pressed against his neck, snapping the memory. _Rage, Thranduil,_ Lorna sent him. _Rage, not fear._

Rage there was, but not his own – never had he felt this strange, hot, almost euphoric wrath save in her own memories. It burned away his horror, his trauma, wiping his mind clean for now.

Forward they charged, and the dead parted before them, clearing a path to the orcs behind their bloody line. In the moonlight he could see that those at the fore had been torn apart, the ground littered with limbs and slippery with entrails.

His sword flashed silver as he scythed through the necks of all he could reach, black blood spraying when heads cleaved from shoulders. He was dimly aware of Lorna's exclamation of disgust, but it must not have slowed her for long, for the orcs beyond his reach collapsed, either from snapped necks or crushed by their own armor.

The rest of the host rushed them in earnest, clearly trying to overwhelm them with sheer force of numbers, the ground thundering beneath their boots. Elves and dead met them head-on, with a clash of sword and spear like discordant music. Thranduil sliced and slashed, and Lorna tore at all within her range, but the two of them would not withstand a sustained assault –

A gout of flame fifty feet high shot into the air, spreading like a storm cloud before descending on the rank in front of them, and Thranduil abruptly realized what he should have known all along:

The dead were not merely dead, they were _cursed_. He had several thousand Lornas, with who knew how many different powers, at his disposal.

Sauron might not be doomed, but his _army_ was.

Lorna must have come to the same realization, for he heard her breathe, "Oh, fuck, _yes_."

The stench of burning flesh and hair filled the air, and the volume of the screams rose until he thought it might deafen him. Somewhere to his right, the earth dropped away beneath a whole squadron, sucking it and several trees into a vast sinkhole. A second fire-maker lurked beyond it, sending an expanding wave of brilliant flame out along the army's right flank. They were mowing through this host at an unprecedented rate, but no one actually wanted to reach the other side. Even the dead would not dare face Sauron himself.

An exceptionally large and hideous orc leapt at the elk, and Thranduil all but cleaved it in two. This was not the Last Alliance, not the battle that had cost him his father and two-thirds of his people. Sauron did not have the Ring, and they had several thousand magical zombies, as Lorna might put it.

Perhaps they would survive this after all – provided Sauron did not decide to weigh in yet. He and his mace could do more than enough damage to those he caught – he simply didn't have the force of the Ring to extend its power. Even as an ordinary weapon, the thing was formidable.

So far the Dark Lord stood still, watching the carnage, his armor a shadow backlit by the moon. What was he thinking? What was he _planning_? Thranduil dared not draw any nearer than he already was, but there was plenty to be done at this distance. The orcs seemed limitless, and many of those caught in the flames fought on like berserkers, the scent of their red-hot armor joining the stench of burned flinch and singed hair.

He heard Lorna gag behind him, and she busied herself flinging the flaming things as far as she could, crashing them into their non-incendiary brethren. She had one hand gripping his cloak so that she wouldn't fall, but her balance was precarious anyway. At least she could grip him with her telekinesis if she had to.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sauron move, and dread curled through him. The mace that had crushed his father's skull hung in the Dark Lord's hand, and it lifted to point straight at Thranduil.

No sooner had he taken a step, though, than Sharley rose up behind him, like some scarred, blue-haired nightmare. She raised that monstrous sword and stabbed Sauron right through the back with it, piercing his armor as easily as if he had none.

It could not kill him, of course, but it must have hurt, for he rounded on her, hitting her full in the chest with his mace. It sent her staggering, but she didn't fall, nor did she release her sword. She brought it around again, through his chest this time, and Thranduil breathed a sigh of relief. She would keep him occupied, and might well be the only one who could.

* * *

Lorna would was enjoying this a little too goddamn much. It was messy, bloody, and it stank like hell, and she'd thrown up in her mouth more than once. But even with that, she was feeling damn near euphoric. Never – not in the forest, not with the Nazgûl – ha she wielded so much of whatever power she had at her disposal. She could crush orcs by the dozen if she could grab the threads right, and she really shouldn't enjoy their screams as much as she did. Whatever odd magic she had been cursed with sparked through her every nerve, running through her veins like quicksilver, setting her heart pounding not with fear, but with fierce exhilaration.

Once this was over, she was going to throw Thranduil on the ground and shag him before God and everybody. She really hoped he wouldn't mind.

* * *

Sauron was irritated, but he was also intrigued. Whatever this Stranger was, the woman kept it bound, literally, to a chair of dark stone within her mind, crafted out of the black rock that littered the ground.

The Stranger too was a woman, or looked like one, and when it raised its head, he saw that it looked exactly like the woman herself, though its hair was dark, its face and arms without scars.

"What have you brought me, Sharley?" it asked, looking at him with mismatched, alien eyes. Its voice sounded like the woman's, but it was possibly the most emotionless noise Sauron had ever heard. There was curiosity in those strange eyes, but nothing more.

"He brought himself," the woman – Sharley – said. "Sauron, Stranger. Stranger, Sauron."

"Have you come to release me?" it asked, head cocked to one side.

"I'm tempted to let him," Sharley muttered, "just to see what would happen."

"What is she?" he asked.

"Me. She is me, and I am her, and we are all together," Sharley sang. "She's what I am before I became what I am. Go on, let her out – I know you want to." A key materialized in one scarred hand, and she handed it to him. "This oughtta get interesting."

He took the key, now incredibly curious, and approached the Stranger. It still watched him with complete and total detachment, with only vague puzzlement in its gaze. "We have never seen anything like you before," it said. "You are…different."

" _Very_ different, he said, unlocking the shackle on the thing's left arm. "As are you."

"There is nothing else like me," it said, with neither pride nor sorrow in its voice. "Are you a threat to Sharley?"

"I am a threat to everyone," he replied, unlocking the right shackle.

The thing rose, with a fluidity he had only ever seen in the Valar, its flat black dress shifting like water. "You should not have said that," it said – and grabbed him by the throat.

Whatever power he had sensed in this woman had all come from this thing, he realized – and there was more of it than he had felt. This creature – this Sharley, this _Stranger_ – was far more of a threat to _him_ than he had thought.

"What _are_ you?" he asked, wrenching free of the thing's grip.

"In our world, we are a god," it said, still with total dispassion. "What we are here…I suppose we will find out."

It lashed out at him with a strength he coveted. For the first time in millennia he had found a worthy foe, but he could not battle it now – not when true battle went on outside of Sharley's mind

"I look forward to destroying you, Stranger," he said, and actually kissed its hand before he left Sharley's mind.

He still had _some_ manners. Aulë would be proud.

The Stranger was incapable of truly enjoying anything, but even if it had been, it would not have enjoyed being patronized, even by another minor deity. It looked at Sharley, who shrugged.

"Go for it," she said. "Just don't kill any of my friends while you're at it."

It was an odd blessing, but Sharley was an odd person. It opened her eyes and found she had fallen to the ground, the stone hard and uneven beneath her back. It was so rarely allowed autonomy that it usually savored it while it could, but there was no time now.

The sword had fallen not far from Sharley's, and the Stranger picked it up before it rose, pausing a moment to inspect the hand – so scarred, so like yet unlike its own.

It had no concept for fair or foul play, and so saw nothing wrong with stabbing the interloper – Sauron – in the back. The sword would not kill him, but it would hurt, and though the Stranger had no concept of pain, it knew that most things did not relish the sensation.

Sur enough, Sauron turned, and hit Sharley so hard with his mace that it would have crushed her chest, had she been mortal. Protecting her was so much easier now that she was no longer alive.

"I am not so easily destroyed," the Stranger said, and stabbed him through the chest, twisting the sword for good measure.

* * *

So, believe it or not, this chapter was actually _even longer_ at first. I finally decided I had to break it up, or it would turn into a novella all on its own.

Where am I getting Sauron's characterization, you ask? _The Silmarillion_ , mostly. He was known as Sauron the Deceiver, and up until Númenor got sucked under the ocean, he had pretty awesome people skills. (Hence why Númenor fucked itself over.) They're pretty damn rusty now, but he can't just intimidate the Stranger to insanity.

Title means "Battle" in Irish. I really have no idea how this chapter is going to go over with you all, so drop me a review and let me know.


	9. Doirse agus Cuimhne

In which things go to hell, nobody at all has a good time, Sharley is a wee bit scary, and Sauron actually has to do something semi-good if he wants to be able to take over the world later.

* * *

Lorna had given up trying to keep track of, well, _anything_. She crushed every orc she could find, but they were so intermixed with her allies now that she couldn't do it large-scale anymore. How the hell were they not constantly killing their own people? Or were they, and she just couldn't tell? This wasn't a battle, it was a goddamn slaughter.

Von Ratched had to still be fine out there, because orcs were being flung and crushed and broken too far out her own reach. Thank God the damn firebugs had moved forward – while they had plenty to fear from Sauron, they didn't have as much as everyone else.

Though Sauron, at the moment, seemed rather busy trying – and failing – to pulverize Sharley, who was using her sword with an almost disturbing lack of urgency. Part of Lorna wanted a closer look, but the rest of her was smarter than that.

Afterward, she never could quite pin the exact moment everything started going to hell. She tore and she crushed, while the fire-wielders lit up the night, bathing everything red-orange, her pulse thundering in her ears as euphoric adrenaline surged through her, until suddenly it _wasn't_ euphoric anymore.

Dread such as she had never before known in her life seized her, gripping her heart and _squeezing_ , and she had no idea why. Icy sweat broke out all over her body, stark terror churning in her gut, and she almost fell right off the elk.

What the _hell_?

She was not the only one who felt it, either; even over the din of the battle, she heard Thranduil's breath catch, and the elk slid backward, entirely against his will, trampling the orcs behind them.

Incredibly, the screaming actually ratcheted up another notch, but terror now was not only that of orcs: the cries of Elves filled the air, cries of both fear and pain, and her heart lurched. Sauron was busy, the orcs were getting taken out along with the Elves – what in flying fuck was going _on_?

A stampede thundered toward them, Elf, orc, and dead alike, all fleeing something she couldn't see. Thranduil tried to hold his ground, but the elk was having none of it – the poor thing was so terrified that it reared onto its hind legs, kicking everyone in its path.

Thranduil was a consummate rider, but Lorna most definitely was not. Her balance, precarious to begin with, deserted her entirely, and her hold on his cloak did her no good at all, because the fabric ripped under her weight.

An orc broke her fall, though she wished it hadn't – its armor was harder and sharper than the ground would have been. To her surprise, it made no effort at all to kill her – just shoved her off itself and ran for it. Another one slammed into her, nearly knocking her off her feet, but it kept going, too.

The elk – where was the elk? She was too fucking short to see over this crowd, and it kept half knocking her over. If she was at all smart she'd flow with it, but Thranduil had to be around her somewhere.

Somebody ran right into her back, knocking her clear off her feet, but they didn't keep going. When she stood, shoving her hair out of her face, she saw it was Sadronniel – or at least, it _looked_ like Sadronniel. She was suspiciously clean, her dark hair impossibly immaculate, and her _eyes_ – those were not Sadronniel's eyes. The blue was as impossibly vivid as ever, but they were flat, dead as a doll's, filled with an alien malice that made Lorna recoil. She didn't know what the hell this thing was, but she thought she knew what everyone was running from.

"Yeah, _nope_ ," she said, and turned to flee. Before she'd taken so much as a step, though, agony tore through her – something sliced into her back, right through her armor, and _tore._

She staggered, turning back to the Sadronniel- thing, and saw that its right hand and sleeve had been dyed red. How the – never mind. She was not going to stick around to find out how.

Off she sprinted, as best she could, the wet heat of her own blood soaking her tunic beneath her apparently useless armor. IF she survived this, she was going to bitch at Thranduil about it until the end of time.

 _Where_ are _you, Thranduil?_ He wouldn't hear a shout, but hopefully he was still in range of her telepathy.

 _I am coming, Lorna. Do not die._

 _Working on it_. No sooner had she sent the thought, however, than a hand like an iron claw clamped on her shoulder, spinning her around. The Sadronniel-thing had followed, and before Lorna could jerk away, its other hand raked right down her face.

If she thought she'd hurt before, it was nothing to the pain that stabbed through her head now. The thing's nails were so sharp that her skin had given no resistance at all, and her eye – her _eye_ – was it even still _there_?

On instinct she tried to fling the thing away from her with telekinesis – and it didn't move. Noting happened.

Nothing.

As if it had sensed her failure, it smiled, a horrible, death's-head grin. Lorna kicked at it, but oh God she _hurt_ , she hurt _so much_ –

A hand grabbed her arm before the thing could claw at her again, wrenching her upward – Thranduil. She clung to his arm like a remora with one hand, the other trying to put pressure on her bleeding face.

They were going to die. They were all going to fucking die, and she did not know _why._

* * *

The Stranger felt the first of the Memories as soon as they awoke. It had known they would do so from the very moment Sauron turned from it to attack the approaching dead, and there was nothing it or Sharley or anyone else could do about it.

Sharley was struggling for ascendancy, but she could not be allowed to face the Memories. Not after what they had done to her. Sauron could not understand them outside of Sharley's head, so the Stranger reached for his consciousness, brushing rather than grabbing.

He actually responded, perhaps too surprised by the summons to do otherwise, entering the arid heat of Sharley's mind.

"Congratulations," she said, regarding him from her rock perch. "You've just made sure that you and I are the only ones who aren't gonna die here. If you actually want there to be a Middle-Earth for you to try and take over later, you're gonna have to help me."

" _What_ are you talking about?" he demanded.

"You can't tell me you don't feel it," she said flatly. "Even you and I can, and they can't actually kill either of us. You've just made Memories – Memories not bound to any location. They'll multiply, and spread, and there's precious little in Middle-Earth that can with stand them. And by 'little' I mean you and me – and I'm only immune because they already killed me."

She rose. "They can't be killed or destroyed, but I might – _might_ – be able to put them…somewhere else. But I don't know if I can do it by myself."

"What are these Memories you speak of?" he asked, now sounding rather curious.

"Hunger," Sharley said. "They feast on pain and fear, and for every person they kill, they gain another. They're a curse that was _supposed_ to be confined to my world." She paused. "We can't communicate outside of my head. Take the Stranger with you – I can talk to it, and it can talk to you, and maybe we can save the damn world. That is, if you actually want to try to do anything with it later."

"Take me _with_ him?" the Stranger asked. "Sharley, I do not think that is possible."

"He's a damn _god_ , I'm sure he'll figure something out." She looked at Sauron, the rage and the pain of her own death fresh in her eyes. "I realize that actually doing anything good might make you break out in hives or something, but you sort of have to, if you want Middle-Earth to last longer than the next, oh, six months."

"Can they be reasoned with?"

Sharley laughed, quite humorlessly. "No. They can't kill you, but they'd never stop trying. And even if you had your shiny gold insurance policy, you couldn't destroy them. _Nothing_ can."

"Your Ring," the Stranger clarified, at his bewildered expression. "And she is right. There is a place we might put them where they can harm none who do not deserve it, if we can gather them all. We cannot risk leaving even one."

"And how are we to gather them?" he asked. "I know you would be unwilling to simply put everyone into this place, Memory or not." He sounded quite disgusted by it, too.

Sharley hesitated, and the Stranger did not wonder why. Thus far, Sauron knew only that they were some manner of alien deity – he had no idea what it was they actually _did_ , and Sharley had to know as much as the Stranger than letting him find out was not wise. But it could not think of a better idea, and neither could she.

"Leave that to me," she said. "Stranger, go with Sauron, if you can. We have to be able to communicate somehow. Let's get this over with."

This was going to _suck_. No matter what she did, no matter how it turned out, this was completely, utterly going to suck.

Sharley had never actually tried anything like this before. In theory she'd be able to do it, but there were a lot of theoretical things she could do with her power that she wasn't actually capable of. There was a very real chance that she was about to kill absolutely everybody, but she didn't have a choice. The Memories absolutely _could not_ be allowed to break free.

She looked down the rise, and saw a field of absolute carnage. It was good thing she wasn't actually alive anymore, or she probably would have puked. There were hundreds – if not thousands – of corpses, and not a single one was in one piece. The remnants of both armies were fleeing, but there was no outrunning the Memories.

Separating them from the living and the dead was actually fairly easy, or would be, if what she intended to do actually _worked_. And maybe, just maybe, she could draw at least a few of them to her.

She looked at Sauron, and wished like hell he actually had a face she could read. That helmet gave away nothing. "You good?"

It took a moment before he answered, and she breathed a metaphorical sigh of relief when he said, "Yes." The Stranger-transfer worked. Awesome.

"Good. Gimme a minute, and don't break my concentration."

Ever since she'd died, Sharley's lost humanity had tried to stay ascendant. No longer did she breathe, nor did her heart beat; she didn't need food, and sleep was beyond her, but she'd be damned if she'd let what the Memories and her father did to her change who she was. Now, though…now she had to voluntarily leave that humanity, to let _what_ she was take over _who_ she was. And doing so was frighteningly easy.

Always she had seen the lines of Time, even when she was alive, but she had rarely tried to manipulate them. Angmar was by far the largest thing she had ever done. The scale of this was smaller, but it required far more precision.

Seeing them was not enough now – even manipulating them from afar was not. In the Other, she did not merely control Time, she _was_ Time, and she had to at least try to do that here.

She let whatever passed for her fractured soul spread out along the threads, not grabbing or gathering, but infiltrating. They bent around the Memories like a stream around rocks – far too many already, tearing and killing as they went.

 _Here we go_ , she thought, and forced a deep breath into her useless lungs.

Bit by bit, the lines of Time ceased their flowing, hanging stationary as they froze. All they touched froze, too – all save the Memories, who suddenly, to her amusement, looked very confused.

She needed that amusement, because this hurt. Sharley had forgotten what real pain was like, and was not at all enjoying the reminder now. And she wasn't anywhere near done yet.

The dimension that had sent those weird zombies into Middle-Earth was still there, and thanks to the Door she had destroyed, she knew how to find it. Whatever had tried to get its undead foot into Middle-Earth was in for a very nasty shock.

"Sauron, you're powerful," she said, gasping with the strain out of lingering human habit. "They'll swarm you if you go down there, so go get 'em."

The helmet turned to him, and she could all too easily imagine the incredulity on the face he no longer had.

"God dammit, they can't hurt you, so _go_ ," she growled. "I don't know how long I can hold this."

Go he did, his heavy boots louder on the ground than they ought to be, body parts she didn't want to think about squishing underfoot. She was so very, very tempted to try to throw him into that other dimension, too, but she didn't think she could actually do it. He was too powerful, and unlike the Memories, he was native to this world; he was too deeply entrenched for her to get rid of him _that_ easily.

As for the Door…God _damn_ was this going to blow. It might well be beyond her, but she tried anyway, because what _else_ could she do? She sought a weak point in the threads of Time, easing them out of the way and seizing what was left – and she _pulled._

Pain such as she had never before known exploded through her head, so intense it drove her to her knees. She might have screamed, but if so, she could not hear it. Even her own death hadn't hurt this much, and in killing her the Memories had all but torn her apart.

"Come on, you fuckers!" she cried, trying to find her feet and failing. "Dinner's down there and dessert's up here – move your ugly asses!" She tried to stand again, succeeding this time, but staggered and fell again when she tried to make her way downhill to the Door. She didn't want to think about what she landed in, or on – it was lukewarm and slimy, stinking of blood and something else, something alien. "You little shits killed me once, so go ahead and try again!"

When she raised her head, she saw them approaching, their footfalls silent. Old, instinctive terror rose in her chest, choking her, but Sauron was with them, and a vast number of them were trying to mob him. He wasn't even bothering to hit them with his mace; he seemed to be essentially ignoring them as they tore at his armor.

Smart Dark Lord.

Sharley tripped and stumbled her way to the Door, falling several more times. Getting them all _through_ the damn thing was a problem she did not yet have a solution for – unfortunately, she was pretty sure she was going to actually have to lead them in herself.

Son of a bitch.

Or so she thought. As soon as they reached the Door, two stories high and three wide, Sauron, bless him, finally decided to use his mace, whacking the damn Memories into the other dimension like someone swatting flies. They had no chance to crawl back out, because more and more were thrown in, knocking them backward. Thankfully there were only a few score to contend with – a number of those they attacked must still be alive, somewhere out in all that carnage.

The agony in her head was by now almost unbearable, radiating out through the rest of her body, and the phantom pounding of her long-stilled heart beat in her ears. As soon as the last of the Memories had been thrown through the Door, she snapped it shut, releasing her hold on the Time-lines as she did.

And then, impossibly, for the first time since she'd died, she blacked out.

* * *

The battle, such as it was, was effectively over, and Thranduil had no name for what had taken its place.

What he _did_ have was a wife who was bleeding to death all over his elk, and lacking his cloak, he had too little to staunch it with. He snatched the cloak off a passing warrior, pressing part to her back and part to her face, praying to whatever Valar might be listening that he was not about to lose her.

The orcs were presenting little problem now, too busy fleeing whatever nightmare pursued them all. The strange terror was diminishing, however; whatever was behind them might have been left behind. Even if it had not, he _had_ to bind Lorna's wounds as best he could. He headed into the trees, hoping they would offer at least a little protection.

The elk nearly ran right over Von Ratched, who was covered in blood both black and red, though little to none of it appeared to be his.

"I saw what happened," he said, sounding entirely too calm as he pointed to Lorna. "Give her here – she will bleed to death before you can bandage her properly."

"And you can stop that, can you?" Thranduil asked venomously.

"Yes," Von Ratched said, still disturbingly calm, "I can. I did, when this happened in the other timeline. Now get down and give her here, if you actually want her to live."

"Do it," Lorna mumbled. "I know what he did there. Let's get off this poor creature."

Thranduil tried to be careful when he dismounted, but Lorna hissed in pain anyway. The blood from her back had soaked right through the cloak, smearing his armor red.

Von Ratched took her wrist in one hand even as Thranduil knelt with her, an unsettlingly sharp focus in his eerie pale eyes.

"What are you doing?" Thranduil asked.

"Slowing her heart rate," Von Ratched said, still focusing on her wrist, "and her respiration. Sleep, Lorna," he ordered, brushing her temple with his other hand, and all the tension left her at once.

"You can _do_ that?" Thranduil demanded, horribly unnerved.

"It is not easy, but yes. I can only slow her pulse so much before risking brain damage, but this will stop her hemorrhaging to death, if nothing else. That cloak looks large enough to make sufficient bandages. If she lives until morning she will probably survive."

"The healers will see to her, once it is safe." Whenever that would actually be – _if_ it would be. He could not imagine what could have torn through Lorna's armor as though it were made of tin.

Getting that armor _off_ of her was no easy task, and when he had, he froze.

Seven marks scored down her back, so long and so deep that he wondered how she was still alive. They looked like the claw-marks of some great animal, torn deep into her muscle. This was beyond his skill to heal, but he had to try. If he could induce the wounds to at least scab, the bandages might actually do some good.

* * *

Von Ratched didn't want to admit that he was rattled, but rattled he was, and immensely so.

He'd known, from his dreams of the other timeline, what Memories were, but he had never expected to see them _here_. It would seem that some things were destined to happen, no matter what the universe, for he had done this very thing to Lorna, when the Memories caught her in that timeline. Even the pattern of the wounds was the same, which was more than a little unsettling.

Weirdly – and fortunately – the one on her face had not hit her eye dead-on, as it had in the other timeline. It would scar, and badly, but she would not lose all her sight in it, as she had there. And at least in this universe it wasn't his fault.

"How is it you do that?" Thranduil asked, tying makeshift bandages with a little more care than was needed.

"Practice," he said. "What I do is considered by many to be monstrous, but it has its uses."

"Clearly." Thranduil turned Lorna in his arms, carefully, and pushed her blood-soaked hair out of her face. His breath caught at what he saw.

"The scar will fade," Von Ratched said, "and the eye, I think, has been spared, which is more than she would have had."

"How can you know that?" Thranduil asked, carefully washing away the blood with water from his canteen.

"I will spare you the clinical description of what has happened to it," Von Ratched said dryly. "I know because it was destroyed in the other timeline."

"She told me that she knew she had lost an eye there," Thranduil said, dabbing at the cut with the last clean edge of the cloak. "I had thought her so fortunate, that that would not happen here."

"She _is_ fortunate," Von Ratched said, "though the fact that the wounds are otherwise identical to what they would have been…concerns me. I intensely dislike the notion of Fate, but it seems some things are fated to happen. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, this is one of them. I do not like to think how many more there might be."

"How did she react, in that other timeline, when she first woke from…this?"

"When she first properly woke, without being drugged to the eyeballs, she tried to kill me," Von Ratched said dryly. "Do not worry about this destroying her – in the other world, she killed Thorvald mere weeks after receiving these wounds. Her temper sustained her through a great deal of hardship."

"I have seen little of that temper here," Thranduil said, still dabbing away. "She has been happy here, as I think she never was in your world."

"Then you had best give her something to be angry with. I do not know this version of her well enough to know what that might be, but I am sure there is something. Sauron, perhaps; I am quite sure this is his fault, though I could not guess _how_."

"I am sure we will find out, in time." Thranduil's habitual reserve was totally absent now, and it was almost unnerving, seeing this ancient Elvenking look so helpless. Love really was a weakness, and Von Ratched was glad he had escaped it in this world.

* * *

Lorna really is lucky, because actually losing her eye in her own timeline caused her a whole shitload of problems. She got off light here.

The Memories are based off a nightmare I had some twenty years ago, that was so vivid and so terrifying that it sticks with me to this day. (Actually, that's where Sharley's entire world came from.)

Title means 'Doors and Memories' in Irish. Reviews feed my soul – drop me a line and let me know how I'm doing.


	10. Ina dhiaidh sin

In which Aragorn and the Rangers meet up with Elrond and his people, Sauron tries (and persists in failing) at manipulating Sharley, and the Elves and Lorna deal with the aftermath of the battle.

* * *

When Lorna woke, she was cruising a wave of painkillers so steep that she almost wasn't sure she _was_ awake. Why had she been given them? There was a blank space in her mind where that knowledge ought to be.

It was morning, though of what day, she couldn't be sure; she could see sunlight on the ground outside the tent. She also had to pee like a mad bastard – and she was pretty sure the Communists had come to visit in the night.

Fuck everything.

There was a bandage over her left eye, and she couldn't remember how that had got there, either, or why. When she sat up, a dull ache radiated through her back, and she had a feeling it would be much worse if not for the painkillers.. With this thing over her eye, her depth perception was shot to hell, and she actually managed to trip over the ground while she headed for the door.

She nearly ran headlong into Thranduil when she reached it, but he caught her before she could stagger backward and land on her arse.

"You should not be up," he said, worry lacing his tone.

"I need to pee," she said. "And I'm pretty sure I need some ST's."

In spite of her irritation, she couldn't help but be amused when his face went slightly pink. "I will help you outside," he said, "and Menelwen can help you with…other things."

Lorna laughed, weary, and didn't have much humor. "Men really _are_ all the same, even when they're Elves," she said, leaning on him while he led her outside. "Thranduil, why have I got this thing on my face?"

He stilled. "You do not remember?"

"No," she said, looking up at him. "I'm missing a lot'v last night, actually. Did I hit my head?" It didn't feel like it, but she was so blitzed on painkillers that she couldn't be sure. Christ, she was lucky she remembered her own name.

"Something attacked us," he said, leading her out into the sunshine. "All of us, Elves, dead, and orcs alike. Memories, or so Von Ratched called them. One of them attacked _you_ , and it nearly cost you your eye. Another two millimeters to the right and it would have."

That turned her blood to ice, and she touched the bandage. "But the eye's okay, right?" she asked, her voice unsteady.

Thranduil squeezed her hand. "We think so. The wound is deep, but it did not touch the eye itself. This is not entirely what would have happened on the other timeline.

Not _entirely_ … "That's why my back's banjaxed, isn't it?" she asked. "It doesn't really hurt much, but I can feel the bandages."

"It is," he said. "Those will heal, though our journey home will not be comfortable for you. Once we are there, at lest you can rest in your own bed, and a healer will stay with you when I am away."

That…didn't sound so bad. It was a damn good thing she'd never been vain, though, because a deep wound was going to scar, and probably badly. If what she'd dreamt of Memories was accurate, the marks left by them never went away – it was why Sharley still bore them, even after death.

Son of a bitch.

"Where's Sharley?" she asked, stumbling a little over the uneven ground.

"We have yet to find her," Thranduil said grimly, "which worries me. Either she is on her own, doing Eru knows what, or Sauron is somewhere with her and trying to break her mind. Though I doubt the latter is actually possible, given how broken she already is. At least it keeps him occupied."

Form what little Lorna knew of Sauron, she wouldn't wish _that_ fate on anyone. "Can't we try to go get her?"

Thranduil looked down at her. "From _Sauron_? No. I am sorry, Lorna, but we are none of us strong enough to even try. He cannot kill her, and if he fails to break her mind, he might well lose interest. He has Thorvald to pursue, after all."

Lorna made a face. "Don't remind me." Poor Sharley…she didn't want to imagine what Sauron must be doing to her brain.

* * *

What Sauron was doing was in fact becoming increasingly frustrated.

He had called up every horrible memory Sharley had – and there were a number of them – to no avail. All he had succeeded in doing was find the voices, whose presence explained a great deal of her odd madness. They were on their way to driving _him_ mad.

Sharley herself sat perched on the bough of a tree stood in the center of a vast swamp, the ground a patchwork of still, black water and sucking mud. According to her, the real place was filled with undead children. Including her daughter.

"Aren't you _bored_ yet?" she asked, looking down at him. "You're as old as fucking time – my brain can't be _that_ interesting."

He wanted to tell her that there must be something within her mind that he could use to bend her to his will, but he was beginning to doubt that. The only will she bent to was that of Time itself – unless she decided to bend _it_. It was beyond infuriating, because she could be so very useful to him, and yet she never would be. A thousand, two thousand years ago, he could perhaps have persuaded her, but something in him doubted even that. She could have read him and his history at a glance, no matter how fair his face or words.

"If you will not be my ally, I will at least make certain you are no-one else's," he said.

She tilted her head to one side. "How are you gonna pull _that_ off?" she asked, genuinely curious. "You're a lotta things, Sauron, but you're not stupid – you've gotta know by now that you can't break what was never whole."

"I will put you to sleep," he said, "and leave you somewhere no one can find you."

She arched an eyebrow. "Good luck with that," she said. "as soon as you leave my mind, I'll wake up. And no matter where you stash me, I'll find my friends again."

"I will find a way," he said.

"You keep telling yourself that," she said, leaning back on the branch and lacing her hands behind her head. "I'll be right here, whenever you give up."

* * *

The Rangers were quite far from Rivendell when they spotted a vast horde of Elves, Lord Elrond at their head. And the sight made Aragorn's heart sink.

His foster-father would not have left Imladris without dire need – and would certainly not have taken what looked to be its entire population with him. Either something terrible had happened, or was about to happen, and his foresight had warned him.

But the Elves were not alone. Behind them were thousands of mortals, men and women, most covered in blood – _what_ had Elrond found? Or what had found _him_?

Aragorn glanced at Haladan. Though he was the youngest of the Rangers, he claimed the most familiarity with Elrond, so it was he who went to greet the Elves.

"I fear to ask what has brought you from Imladris, my lord," he said. "And why you have such…company."

"It is not at all a pleasant story," Elrond said, grim-faced. "Nor a short one. We make for the Woodland Realm, and you would be wise to accompany us. Darkness is coming."

Aragorn looked at the rest of the Rangers. "I know," he said. "We have seen it. We were on our way to ask if you knew anything of it."

"I know only what I have been told," Elrond said. "Maeve could tell you more." He turned to call over his shoulder, "Maeve, please join us."

Maeve, as it turned out, was a mortal woman – or had been. It took no more than two seconds for Aragorn to discern that this woman, though she walked, was dead. _Very_ dead; nothing living had skin of that hue, and that was quite apart from all the blood.

"She will not harm you," Elrond said. "She and her people have come to help us. This darkness – and what has created it – have much to do with how she and her brethren perished."

That…was all a bit much, but Aragorn's manners took over on instinct. "My lady," he said, bowing. When he straightened, he found her looking both confused and slightly amused.

"She as yet speaks little Sindarin," Elrond said. "Her native tongue is not of Middle-Earth, but we have taught her some these last weeks."

Now _that_ was rather intriguing. Aragorn had a gift for languages, and an interest in them, but now was not the time. "Will you – we – all _fit_ in King Thranduil's halls?" He had never actually been there, though Legolas had said they were vast. "And will he even let you in?"

"I believe so, and he will have no choice. Not once he has heard our reason for coming. And even if he did not wish to let us in, his wife would make him."

Aragorn's eyebrows rose. "His _wife_?"

"That is another long tale, and the twins could tell it better than I, for they were there. It is both horrifying rather amusing in places."

"But – he is already married," Aragorn said. "Why would he risk the wrath of the Valar?"

"It was an accident," Elladan said, coming up beside his father, "and she is mortal, which is possibly why the Valar have not punished him."

Aragorn's eyebrows rose even higher. There was only one way for an Elf to _accidentally_ get married, and Legolas had mentioned his father's love of wine. "That's…unfortunate."

Elladan grinned. "It gets better. Lorna did not know of Elven wedding customs. She had something of a nasty shock the next morning. As well as a terrible headache. Followed, eventually, by children. Trust me, our arrival will be the least of King Thranduil's concerns – if he's even there. When I stopped in a fortnight ago, he was away in Gondor."

"Oh, _no_ ," Aragorn groaned. Legolas was almost certainly not enjoying things, either.

"You will like her," Elladan said. "She is strange and tiny and the most profane person I have ever known, and she and Thranduil seem to actually genuinely love one another, somehow. He will be caustic, but she will keep him from being anything worse. That, and Elrohir went to see Grandfather – perhaps his people will have got there first."

 _That_ was an almost horrifying thought. The population of three whole Elven realms jammed into one place…it could be a recipe for utter disaster. And that was quite aside from this horde of walking dead people. "I will speak with Haladan, but I think we will go with you," Aragorn said. "I do not know where else we _could_ go." Perhaps Lady Galadriel would have some idea of what to do about the darkness, but he doubted it. If it was truly not of this world, he wondered if anyone would.

* * *

The larders were near to bursting, scores of guns and thousands of bullets had been forged, and Bard was beginning to think they might just weather this after all.

He and Dain had been going over evacuation plans, and attempting to work out just where to put all the people of Dale. Erebor was large, but so was its population; they were likely going to be turning some of the council chambers into dormitories. The mountain had rooms for guests, but not enough for every single soul in Dale. The young and the unmarried would be relegated to the dormitories.

Speaking of _the unmarried_ , he was getting rather fed up with Ratiri. Long courtships were a good thing, but the damnable man had yet to even make a move toward any form of courtship at all. It was clear he was fond of Sigrid, and that she had something of a soft spot for him, but it had not gone beyond that. Bard wouldn't care so much if there weren't a few less than savory potential suitors waiting for an opportunity to seek her hand.

He knew – from Tilda – that Sigrid did wish to marry sooner or later. Had she simply desired to remain unwed, he wouldn't worry – but Sigrid, though extremely pragmatic, had a romantic streak she would rather no one knew about, and she was young enough that that she might be swayed – and trapped – by honeyed words. Ratiri was kind and good and almost shy at times, and had drawn the eye of most every woman in Dale – including Sigrid, when she thought no one was looking.

The biggest hurdle appeared to be their age-gape, which for some reason bothered Ratiri immensely. Fifteen or even twenty years was not uncommon among the people of Dale, since childbirth was so hazardous, but he seemed to think there was something legitimately wrong with it. Not even pointing out that King Thranduil was several thousand years older than Lorna helped. Apparently, the difference in species made _that_ all right, for some reason Bard could not understand.

Oh well. If they were in fact all to be trapped in Erebor for Eru knew how long, perhaps matters would simply take their course from there.

* * *

Lorna had in fact been victimized by the Communists, but at least the painkillers had kept any potential cramps at bay. She sat curled up in the sunshine, knees under her chin, trying to watch everything with one eye and wishing she could help.

The Elves were burying their dead – or what they could find of them. They still didn't actually know how many had fallen, and thanks to the damage the Memories had done, it might be a while before they found out.

As much as she would not have wanted to see the faces of those she knew, Lorna really didn't want to sit still, either. Memory had come to her slowly, in bits and pieces, and Thranduil was right – that battle had been like nothing she had ever seen. It was a world away from even the worst fight she'd been in, in Dublin. She had done some truly nasty things to people, often with her teeth, but it had been nothing like that.

But then, the Memories were as new to the Elves as they were to her. _They_ were something out of a goddamn nightmare, and she wondered where they had gone, and who got rid of them. They couldn't still be around, or they would have slaughtered everyone else.

Did orcs count as people? The Elves didn't seem to think so, but they were people-shaped; they walked and spoke and breathed, and she had no idea how many of them she had killed last night. Sure, they would have killed _her_ in a heartbeat, but still. They'd been sentient beings, and she'd killed them. How the hell was she meant to live with _that_?

And Sadronniel…Lorna knew, from her dreams of the other timeline, that a new Memory was made for each person they killed. If there had been a Sadronniel-Memory, it meant the real one was dead. Lorna never really had re-connected with her after they'd returned to Mirkwood – after all, the elleth had been willing to drag her back to Thranduil when he was still crazy and mind-rapey – but she'd never get the chance, now. Sadronniel had gone where she could never follow, and God only knew how many others had gone with her.

"Eru, you're an asshole," she muttered, drawing patterns in the dirt with her finger. How could the different races expect to form real relationships, if they all went somewhere different when they died? Whenever _she_ died, she'd be separated from Thranduil and their children forever. She'd always been pretty hazy on religion on Earth, but she was pretty sure none of them had a deity _that_ cruel. Was this Eru's way of…of fantasy segregation? If so, he really _was_ an asshole.

She hadn't really given a thought to her own death – not since Sharley froze her time. But no matter how long she lived like this, someday – in a hundred years, or a thousand – she would die, and never see her family again. Whenever that happened, she was going to have Words with Mandos, because she at least wanted visitation rights, dammit. This sketchy Gift of Ilúvatar was no manner of gift at all, if it separated her from those she loved.

 _You're getting maudlin, Lorna_ , she thought, but she couldn't help it. She'd very nearly died last night, and if she had, she and Thranduil would never have seen one another again. She would never have known her children, in this life or the next.

Yeah, whenever she did finally kick the bucket, she and Mandos were going to have a conversation he would not enjoy.

* * *

The aftermath of a battle never grew any easier with repetition, but this one was especially gruesome. Thranduil saw more than one of his Elves disappear briefly into the trees, overcome with grief.

It was easy to see who had fallen to the Memories. Orcs bashed and hacked, but the Memories… _shredded_ was the only word for it, rending an Elf limb from limb as though his or her armor had been nothing more than paper, slicing away long strips of flesh. He, who had seen some of the worst of Middle-Earth's battlefields, found himself nauseated, and at times it was all he could do to keep moving.

Huoriel's body was among the fallen, her face unmarked but her chest torn to bits, and he was glad Lorna was not here to see. He did not look forward to telling her, and decided he would not, unless she asked. He remembered the day he swore Huoriel in as guard – it was the same day as Faelon, who mercifully had been spared. Thranduil might not interact with most of his guards, but he knew who each and every one of them were – their names, their faces, their histories. All the dead had served him for centuries, if not a millennium. Now they had gone to Mandos, where he hoped they would find rest.

This would take another two days at least, but he would not move on until all his people had been cared for, the living and the dead.

When he returned to his tent at dusk, he found Lorna sitting outside it, before a crackling fire.

"I thought I understood," she said, looking up at him with her good eye. It was red from weeping, and the bandage over her left eye was both damp and dyed pink from a mix of tears and blood. "I mean, I have so many'v your memories that I thought I got it, a little. It's…a lot different, through my own eyes. I know you don't think'v orcs as people, but they sort'v are – just really awful people, and I can't help but feel shitty for killing them."

Thranduil brushed the hair back from her brow. It needed washing, and perhaps he would do that tonight, since Eru knew he would rather not sleep. "Each and every one of us felt that way, at first," he said, "whether we would admit it or not. Hating orcs is one thing, but actually _killing_ them is, at first, quite another. Taking lives gets easier with time, out of necessity if nothing else. You likely saved many of our people last night. Think of it that way."

She shuddered. "Not Sadronniel," she said. "I hate that my last sight of her face was that – that _thing_ , not her. How many more people did we lose to the Memories?"

He shut his eyes, thinking of Huoriel. "Too many. Sharley's word must be a place of utter nightmare, to produce such creatures."

"It explains a lot about _her_ , though, poor woman," Lorna said. "I hate to say it, but whenever I get upset or fed up, I remind myself that at least I haven't got her life."

"I am certain you are far from the only one," he sighed. "I need to change your dressings, Dilthen Ettelëa, and we should wash your hair."

"It's kind'v a greaseball, huh?" Before he could answer, she took his hand. "Are you okay?"

"No," he said honestly. "Nor is anyone else. No one ever is, in the wake of battle. Such things only heal with time."

She looked at him closely, searching his face. "Thranduil, will you let me do something for you?"

"Perhaps," he said. "It depends on what that something is."

She touched his brow with her callused, Edain-warm hand. "Let me seal off your grief for a while, until you have time to handle it. I can't take it from you completely, but I can…put it in a box, sort'v thing, so you can get through this easier."

He ought to say no, but her good eye was like a green star, a lodestone that called to his very fëa. "Will that hurt you?"

"No," she said. "I can't help you with the burials while I'm so bolloxed-up, but I can help you with this. I'd feel a lot less guilty leaving you to it if I knew you weren't suffering when I could do something about it. Is breá liom tú, allanah."

"Gi melin, hiril vuin." He shut his eyes a moment. "If you can, Lorna," he said, "but do not hurt yourself."

"I _won't_ ," she repeated, exasperated. Her eye flicked up to her hand, as though watching her own fingers, fierce concentration in its depths.

He felt the worst of his tension ease, draining like water through a sieve, the grief and horror of the last day fading. It did not leave entirely, but it was bearable now – perhaps he actually could sleep tonight. If only there was some way to do this for his entire army; it seemed unfair that he should have surcease when they did not.

"You're the King," Lorna said, apparently reading his mind. "You've got more to bear than everyone else. I'd rather it not break you. When we get home, when we can rest, then you can work through it."

She'd gone very pale, and when she shifted, she winced.

"Are you in pain?" Thranduil asked.

"A little. Meds're wearing off. I'll take another dose, and then we might as well deal with the sliced bacon that is my back."

He didn't make a face, but he rather wanted to. "You have a way with words, Dilthen Ettelëa, and that is not always a good thing." He followed her into the tent, lighting the brazier and several lanterns. They would need plenty of hot water for this task, and fresh bandages. It smelled better in here, and he suspected Lorna had brought incense on their trip.

She took a long swig from a red glass bottle, and grimaced. "Sure God doesn't that half taste'v feet."

"How do you know what feet taste like?" he asked, fetching a pot and setting it on the brazier. "Have you some deviant inclination I do not know about?"

"Haven't you ever known what something would taste like just by smelling it?" she asked, struggling to unlace her tunic.

"I cannot say that I have," he said, taking over for her. There was enough water in the jug by the brazier to fill the pan, but not enough for the washtub; he would have to fetch more, from the part of the stream not fouled by corpses. "I am going to let this heat," he said, filling the pot, "but I must fetch more. Leave your bandages alone until I return."

"Trust me, I'm not tempted to mess with them."

"Good." He took up the jug and went back out into the night. Already his Elves were beginning their laments, though they did not yet have all the names to add to them. Until all the dead were found and given proper burial, there was nothing that he, as King, could really do for them, beyond what he was already doing.

The day had been warm, but now that they were so much further north, the setting of the sun brought a bite of chill. Autumn was well on the way; in another month, they would be waking to frost on the ground. At least the chill meant the corpses of the orc filth would be slower to start reeking.

Thank Eru there was a tributary to the stream untouched by corpses, too, pure and icy cold. He filled the jug and hauled it back through the darkness and found Lorna struggling to brush her hair. The bandages around her were stained rusty-brown in places on her back, where the wounds had opened up during the day.

"Let me take care of that later," he said, takin the brush from her. The water on the brazier was steaming, but not too hot, and he set the pot on the ground so it wouldn't overheat.

The bandages were not easily dealt with; they had stuck to the cabs in some places, and he had to soak the fabric to loosen them. The wounds were so horrific that she certainly would have died, if not for Von Ratched's intervention, and owing that man anything irked Thranduil.

The fact that he could do such a thing at all was, quite frankly, terrifying. Lorna had mentioned that _stopping_ someone's heart wouldn't be difficult at all, but that level of _control_ …Von Ratched might technically be weaker than many in Middle-Earth, but the mastery and control he had over the power he did possess made him a more formidable enemy than any of them had guessed. Had he and Lorna actually gone toe-to-toe with the Nazgûl, they wouldn't have lasted five minutes, but they hadn't needed to. They hadn't needed to touch them at all.

Thranduil had spent so much time focused on their telepathy, and the fact that it was far weaker than most Elves in Middle-Earth, and hadn't given nearly enough thought to the telekinesis. _That_ was something none but the Istari could do, and gave them an edge others did not have. It would not aid Von Ratched against, say, Galadriel, who could make mental contact without touch, but she was the only Elf now left in Middle-Earth who could claim that. The Istari could kill Von Ratched, but there were only three of them in this part of Middle-Earth, and Thranduil had his doubts about Radagast. He was too kind-hearted a soul, and against Von Ratched, it would be his undoing.

"You're very quiet," Lorna said.

"I am thinking," he said, prying and cutting the last of the bandages away. Fortunately, few of the scabs had really been broken.

"Dangerous, right now." She jumped a little when he dabbed at her shoulder with a wet cloth.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked, stilling.

"No," she said, "you just startled me. This painkiller's pretty damn effective."

She was lying, but he let it stand. Lorna had her pride, even now. "I feel like a fool for not realizing how much of a threat Von Ratched is," he said instead.

"I didn't, either, and we've got the same bloody curse. I'd not thought about how many things could actually be done with it. For Christ's sake, it's only two things." She jumped again when he touched the scab itself, but he said nothing. "Just how bad are those bloody things, anyway?"

Thranduil knew better than to lie to her. "Bad enough," he said. "The good news is that thing's claws were so sharp that there was no tearing. The wounds will heal cleanly. Perhaps the scars might have itched or pained you on Earth, but our healers can make certain they do not, here." He smeared a basic sterilizing salve over the cut, and moved on to the next.

"Thank bloody Christ for that. I've no experience at all with scars _this_ big, but the one over my boob can itch something fierce when my skin's dry. I should've got stitches, but I'd've had to explain how I got it to begin with and I'd no desire to get arrested. Again."

He shook his head. "You truly did have a wayward youth, didn't you?"

"'Wayward' doesn't begin to cover it. I'd seen – and been in – so much violence in my life that I thought I'd be a little prepared for last night, but…well. Nope."

"All warriors feel the same, after their first battle," he assured her.

"I hope there's never a second, though I'm betting that hope's a vain one," she sighed.

"Most likely." He washed the last of the cuts and applied the salve, and reached for a clean length of bandage. She was going to go through quite a bit of it, since the only way to make it stay in place was to wrap it entirely around her.

The one on her face he'd actually stuck on with another salve, because it was either that or wrap up her entire head, and when she turned to him, he carefully un-stuck it with more warm water.

"Thranduil," she said, and for the first time, she actually sounded hesitant, "am I going to be totally disfigured by this damn thing? I wasn't exactly going to win any awards before, but at least I wasn't…I dunno, _deformed_."

He looked at her – her unnerving green eyes, filled with far too much memory for her short life, her brown skin that had seen much sun, and a good deal more on this journey, and the long, deep wound that had only just missed her left eye, and which was going to leave a truly impressive scar.

"I think you have no idea how beautiful you truly are," he said, stroking her un-injured cheek. "You are my wildling woman, given to me by the forest. No, you are not a court lady, made for tea parties and fine dresses – you are so much more than that. You are like nothing else I have ever seen."

And weirdly, very weirdly, he thought that this would make others see her as he did. One had to really look at Lorna to see her true beauty, and the scar would draw the eye. She was more than the sum of her parts, but even they were finer than she – or most others – had likely ever noticed, not having taken the time to pay attention.

She looked incredibly dubious, so he said, "Shall I show you what I see, when I look at you?"

"I hope I'm not going to regret this," she said. "Sure."

He let his mind touch hers, and showed her all he saw – not just her hröa, but her fëa, burning so very brightly. Her wild hair, black as night threaded with silver, her unearthly eyes, part of this world and yet not of it. _That_ was what made her beautiful – she was Ettelëa, the first of them, but no longer a stranger, a creature gifted to him by some power none understood.

"Is that really how you see me?" she asked, still almost hesitant.

"It is how all Eldar will see you. I cannot speak to the eyes of Edain, but you are unlike anything else in this world." It was, to him, better than satin skin and silky hair, than soft curves or lithe limbs, and he did not believe he thought that simply because he loved her. Among the court ladies of Minas Tirith, she would have looked terribly out-of-place, but here, in the wilderness where she belonged, she might just be the loveliest thing he had ever seen.

She smiled a little, and it was somehow both dry and a little shy. "I guess I don't need to feel so self-conscious standing next to you, then" she said. "That – that makes me feel better, Thranduil. It really does."

"I would certainly hope so," he said, kissing her brow. "Now let me clean this and wash your hair, and we should sleep while we have a chance."

* * *

"Is breá liom tú, allanah" means "I love you, dear one" in Irish

"Gi melin, hiril vuin" means "I love you, beloved lady" in Sindarin.

Title means "Aftermath" in Irish. As always, I love hearing from you all.


	11. Tionól

In which the Elves from Imladris meet up with Thranduil & co., Sharley is rather amused by Sauron's persistence, and Legolas just wants daddy to come the fuck home already.

* * *

It took nearly a week to find and bury all the dead, and by then the orc-corpses reeked to high heaven. Lorna was more than glad to move on, for her heart hurt terribly.

A final list of casualties had been compiled, and among them were Beleg and Huoriel, as well as Sadronniel. A dark, terrible part of her wondered why the others grieved so much, when they would see all the fallen again one day, either through death or sailing.

 _That_ was a thought she kept to herself, though it raised another terrible question: did the dead humans of Middle-Earth go to the same place as the humans from Earth? The only comfort at all she'd had was knowing that, while she'd be separated from her family, there had been many she'd lost on Earth that she'd see again, but maybe not. Maybe she'd go into the afterlife here alone.

 _Snap out of it, Lorna_. That wasn't a thought she needed right now – or ever. For now, she needed to focus on the fact that they were on the way home – that soon she could rest and recover in her own bed, and see her legume children, and maybe even enjoy life a little before everything went to shit again. Maybe she would be separated from them forever one day, but she wasn't _now_ , and that was what mattered.

That trip, however, was not a comfortable one, no matter how she tried to sit on the elk. The painkiller worked great as long as she wasn't moving, but the wound on her face, which was the shallowest of the cuts, was beginning to itch like a mad bastard, and it was all she could do not to scratch it. Eventually she resorted to pressing her bandaged cheek to the elk's neck, trying to relieve the itch with pressure. It didn't work very well.

At least the sun was still warm during the day, and she had the brazier and Thranduil to keep her warm at night. He was almost obsessive in his need to look after her, but she couldn't be annoyed, because he had good reason for needing it. He could do nothing for those who had died, but he _could_ keep her safe, so she let him fuss. If it helped him, it was worth it, even if she did rather feel like she was being smothered.

They saw no sign of any surviving orcs – or of Sauron. Which would be a damn good thing, if he hadn't hauled Sharley off somewhere. Lorna's only consolation _there_ was the knowledge that Sharley couldn't actually feel pain anymore; if the dreams of the other timeline were accurate, she couldn't even really get cut or stabbed. Trying to torture her would be one bit fat exercise in futility. Even so, she probably wasn't enjoying herself much.

* * *

Sharley actually _was_ enjoying herself, a little bit. There were a number of dark corners in her mind she'd left unexplored for decades, but she followed Sauron into them – more because it annoyed him than anything else. She had to hand it to him – dude was nothing if not persistent. Though she _was_ kind of amazed he hadn't wandered out of her mind out of sheer boredom by now.

They stood in Old Echo now, a place which, even in her mind, she avoided at all cost. It was the birthplace of the Memories, and the site of her own death.

Though some four hundred years old, it looked very like something out of small-town America, circa perhaps 1945. The War hadn't actually damaged it very much; it was suspended in time, little different than it had been the day all its inhabitants died.

She and Sauron now stood in an intersection, long-dead traffic lights bobbing faintly in the hot breeze. To the right had been a supermarket, its red-brick walls obscured by dirt and worn by wind. One of the massive plate-glass windows had been smashed; the other, still intact, was filmed with a heavy cataract of dust. Beyond the broken window was darkness, where even she would not tread.

 _Sauron_ had no qualms about it, and she followed him out of pure curiosity. If there _was_ something nasty inside that hole, at least it would attack him first.

"What happened here?" he asked, running his hand over the warped wooden frame.

"War," she said. "My father's first wife. You'd've gotten along with her, probably. She wanted to rule the world, too – though from what I've heard from everybody, she was also batshit insane. The Other wasn't always like this. That's all her fault."

"How did she do it?" He stepped over the sill, utterly without a qualm.

Sharley shrugged. "If anybody knows, they never told me," she said. "I never cared to look at history close enough to find out. There are some things I just don't want to know."

"Magic," the Stranger said. "Magic brought from the Void, which she could not control."

Sauron froze, and turned to it. His eyes were black, so dark Sharley couldn't differentiate iris from pupil, and she did not at all like the suddenly hungry look in them. "The Void?" he repeated.

She knew why he'd be curious – she'd seen Morgoth's fate in Middle-Earth's history. "Wrong Void," she said. "If your boss was in this one, you can get Akathisia woulda got him out. Besides," she added, "would you _really_ want him back? You'd get knocked down to servant again, and he'd take all the sweet loot."

He shook his head. "I do wish I knew how it is you see these things."

A wonderful, awful idea occurred to her. "I could show you," she said. Either he'd be strong enough to handle it, or he wouldn't. And if he wasn't, it might drive him insane, and she'd be free of him. Sauron was powerful and ancient almost beyond reckoning, but there was no way he would have ever seen anything like she would show him before.

He watched her a moment, searching her face, but he wouldn't find anything. She couldn't actually _hurt_ him, and they both knew it. "Very well," he said. "Show me what it is you see, Sharley."

* * *

As it turned out, Elrond's horde nearly ran straight into Thranduil's returning army.

It was a weary army, and a sorrowful one, and as predicted, Thranduil was not at all happy to see him.

His tiny Edain wife, however, was quite happy to see Elladan. She waved him over to the elk, while Thranduil gave Elrond a tired glare, and Elrond realized his son was right: Thranduil would put up with them, precisely because she would want him to.

He gave her an assessing look. She had a truly vicious wound on her face, but it didn't stop her chattering away with Elladan. There was something _unnatural_ about her, something not precisely Edain, but he couldn't identify what it was. It, and she, unnerved him.

Thranduil dismounted the elk, handing her carefully to Elladan, and approached Elrond, at least having the grace to give him a short bow. "I know nothing save dire need would draw you from Imladris, Lord Elrond," he said, "let alone this far. I know already I am going to greatly dislike you tale, so we may as well make cap and hear it." No, he was most definitely _not_ happy, but far less icy than Elrond had seen him in centuries.

"Ow, motherfucker!" the little woman yelped in the background.

Thranduil actually pinched the bridge of his nose. "Elladan, did you just drop my wife?"

"No…maybe. Perhaps." He sounded distinctly chagrined.

"I'm fine, Thranduil. I've been on that damn elk too long – my arse fell asleep."

"Lorna, I do not think that is physiologically possible," he said.

"Says you," she grunted, making her way through the crowd. "I think our dead guys and Elladan's dead guys are having a family reunion."

"So long as they do it _quietly_ ," he said. "Lorna, this is Lord Elrond of Imladris. Lord Elrond, my wife, Lorna Donovan."

"Hi," she said, giving him a rather awkward bow. "You're the twins's Da, aren't you? They've told me about you and your home, over the winter. They're…well, they're _characters_."

"That they are," Elrond said, a little dryly. "We would be happy to make camp with you, King Thranduil. Our tale is indeed unpleasant, as well as long, and the Rangers have something to add to it."

"I doubt it can be worse than our own," Thranduil said.

Lorna said something in no tongue Elrond recognized. Thranduil looked rather pained, but surprisingly, Maeve burst out laughing. It was a harsh, hoarse, grating sound, and rather horrible.

"What did she say?" he asked

Thranduil sighed. "She said that we crawled up Sauron's arsehole, and got stuck." Seeing Elrond's horrified expression, he added, "As I said, I doubt your tale can be worse than ours. Middle-Earth is in a great deal of trouble."

* * *

Lorna, after another dose of painkiller, was perfectly happy to sit and listen to the story Elladan's father had to tell.

They'd all met up in her and Thranduil's tent once darkness fell – Elladan and Elrond, two very tall, grim-faced human men, a zombie lady, and a staggeringly beautiful Elf woman who turned out to be the twins' little sister. Lorna immediately felt very sorry for her.

Camp stools were scrounged from other tents, and they all sat around the warmth of the brazier, awash in golden lantern-light. The heat made the scab on her face tighten and itch, and she was trying extremely hard not to scratch it.

"Darkness is coming," Elrond said. He looked very like his sons, pale and dark-haired, but older, and wearier. She didn't think it was solely from their very long trip, either. "Maeve warned us, and the Rangers have seen it. We seek refuge in your halls, Thranduil, if you will allow it. This darkness will kill all that it touches."

Thranduil's eyes flickered to the dead woman. "Maeve, what approaches?" he asked in Irish, thankfully _not_ asking if Elrond was out of his mind. That had to be a good sign.

"Thorvald, the one who killed us – he has left the door to his prison open, and the darkness within it is escaping into your world," Maeve said. She sounded way too calm, Lorna thought. "It will kill all that it touches, flora and fauna, but the people he can resurrect into his minions. They too would be undead, but not like us – they will have no will of their own, and answer to his every whim."

"That's encouraging," Lorna muttered.

"Even we who are already dad are not safe from it," Maeve went on. "Aelis does not know precisely _what_ it will do to us, but none wish to find out."

"She is with us, somewhere," Thranduil said. "Or was. I have not seen her in weeks."

"Aelis goes where she is needed. She was the first of us to fall, and the nearest thing we have to a leader. If she has left you, she has a reason."

"Maybe she's gone after Sharley," Lorna said hopefully. " _Someone_ has to." She finally gave in and rubbed at the scab, though she didn't actually scratch.

"Stop that," Thranduil said severely, in Sindarin. "Elrond, you are a superior healer to any in my army – I would appreciate it if, when we are through, you would have a look at Lorna's wounds."

"If they have come from the creatures I suspect, there is nothing to be done," Maeve said. "Nothing heals Memory-wounds but time. Where are they now?"

"Sharley and Sauron took care'v them, we think," Lorna said, rubbing her scab again.

"What is this about Sauron?" Elladan demanded.

"He led a host this way," Thranduil sighed, "to meet up with Thorvald. His host is dead, but he remains at large, and possibly in possession of one of our allies."

"Sauron is at large?" Elrond asked, almost faintly. His face had gone bloodless-white. "And his entire host was destroyed?"

"What we did not kill, the Memories took care of for us," Thranduil said grimly. "We lost many of our number to them as well." He suddenly looked very bleak, and Lorna reached over to take his hand.

"If it comforts you any," Maeve said, "the Memories have done nothing to their souls. Should you see a Memory that looks like one of your departed, it is an echo only. The essence of that person is gone."

Lorna had really wondered about that, and it was a relief to know she didn't need to. "Could _they_ survive in the darkness?" She already knew the answer in the other timeline, but maybe it would be different here.

"Unfortunately, yes," Maeve said. "We can only hope no more are made."

Somehow, Lorna doubted they'd get that lucky.

"Elrond, do you _really_ intend to shelter your entire population within my walls?" Thranduil asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. "While I have the space, I cannot possibly feed you all."

"We have brought all we had in Imladris," Elrond said, "and we will hunt and gather while we still can. Doubtless Celeborn and his people will bring provisions as well."

Thranduil stared at him, naked horror on his face. " _What?_ "

Lorna couldn't blame him, either; the halls were far larger than their current population needed, but Elrond's people were going to fill up the empty space easily enough. _Another_ whole kingdom/realm/whatever…it would be standing-room only, maybe literally.

"Elrohir went to talk to Grandfather," Elladan said. "Having two of the Three in one place could only be a good thing."

Thranduil's expression darkened, and Lorna winced. She still didn't know why he didn't have the third Elven Ring; if _he_ knew, it was not a memory she had received, and she was hardly about to ask. Even between spouses, some things were just not the other's business.

"You would only have the two," he said shortly. "Mithrandir is away on his fool's errand. Of more use are all of our cursed dead."

"Cursed?" one of the men asked.

Now Thranduil smiled, and it was not wholly pleasant. "Maeve, did you not tell them what you are?" he asked in Irish.

"Lord Elrond and Lord Elladan know," she said. "I do not speak enough of their language to properly explain," she added calmly. In the lantern-light, her bloody eyes looked almost black.

His unpleasant smile grew. "What is your curse, Maeve? Show them."

The dead woman sighed, which was a neat trick for someone who wasn't actually breathing. She held up one blue-white hand, and bright flame twisted around her fingers, coiling like a very small, burning snake.

Even Elrond twitched, which told Lorna he probably hadn't actually seen her curse. The people of Middle-Earth really weren't prepared for that kind of magic.

"All the dead have some manner of gift," Thranduil said. "Lorna reads minds, and moves things with hers. I would rather have them than your _Rings_."

She gave his hand a gentle squeeze, both comfort and warning. _Later, Thranduil_ , she sent him. _Not now._

"You are obnoxious," he said in English.

"Not half as obnoxious as you. Save it until we're home, and you can get drunk." She scratched her scab again, almost unaware of what she was doing, and he actually rolled his eyes as he grabbed her hand.

"I am going to tie mittens onto your hands," he said in Sindarin.

"What good d'you think _that_ will do?' she demanded. "Come _on_ , Thranduil, it _itches_."

"And it will continue to itch until it heals, which will only take longer if you scratch it."

"Yeah, well, when this scab starts falling off, I'm going to save the bits and stick them to your face in your sleep," she said, scowling at him.

Elladan burst out laughing. "How nice to know you have fully resolved your differences," he said. "King Thranduil, I doubt you could find mittens small enough for her hands, unless you took them off a child."

Lorna transferred her glower to him. "Hush, you. I'll bite you again."

"I thought I was the only one you bit," Thranduil said, mock wounded.

She looked up at him. "You get the fun biting. He gets the kind that makes you bleed."

Elrond and both humans suddenly looked very uncomfortable, which was probably Thranduil's intent. The Elf-lady, Elladan's sister, looked very much like she was trying not to laugh.

"I will keep that in mind," Thranduil said, and sighed. "You may come with us, Elrond, though I doubt you will find it enjoyable. Hopefully my son has not let the kingdom fall to ruin in my absence."

Lorna elbowed him. "Be nice," she said. "If he did, it's your fault for not teaching him better."

Elladan looked at his father. "Adar, can I use that as an excuse, the next time I do something wrong?"

"No," Elrond said flatly. "Go see to the camp – I will look at Lorna's wounds, and join you later."

Elladan's expression said, very clearly, _Well, I had to try._

* * *

Legolas now fully understood why his father drank so very much.

Things were easier, now that he had dismissed the more useless of the councilors, but he had never before realized the sheer scale of the logistics involved in running a kingdom. He had to keep track of _everything_ – food supplies, weapons, trading goods, even the fabric used to make official uniforms, and that was just the start of it.

Court days were the absolute worst. Always he had thought his father overly irascible, but now he wondered how anyone could get through it sober. Most people who would have had sensible requests hadn't bothered _requesting_ anything at all – they just got on with it, and stayed out of his hair, which suited him just fine.

Lord Arphenion was the most notable offender. He was theoretically in charge of imports and exports, but he so often sought his Prince's opinion that Legolas thought, quite sourly, that he ought to just take over the job himself – it wasn't like it was precisely important right now. At least Arphenion's wife, Lady Silwen, quietly snuck him bottles of honey wine, along with occasional notes of apology for her husband being…himself.

The lord in question was currently seated on the other side of Legolas's desk, and seemed determined to stay there. He was of middling height for an ellon, with a head of shiny, jet-black hair that almost looked to perfect to be real. His eyes, by contrast, were almost amber – in truth, he looked rather unsettling.

"Lord Arphenion, we cannot _afford_ to be exporting anything," Legolas said. "I will not sanction it until my father returns, but I doubt he will, either. We need all that we have."

"If we alienate our trading partners, they will take their business elsewhere," Arphenion pointed out, and he wasn't exactly _wrong_ , either.

"They will have troubles of their own, soon enough," Legolas said, which was also true.

He was spared further conversation by Marty, who, as was her wont, came wandering in unannounced, Sméagol at her heels like a faithful dog. He wasn't actually all that much taller than her, even when he stood up straight.

Time – and her effort – had transformed him somewhat. She'd coaxed him into wearing a simple shirt and trousers, and while she hadn't yet managed to get him to eat cooked food, at least now he was willing to wait until it was actually dead first. He was walking upright more often, too, though he still climbed with the agility of a monkey.

Fortunately, Arphenion was horrified by both of them, and made a few hasty excuses before he all but fled. Thank Eru for _that_ , at least.

"We thought you might need help," Marty said, climbing up onto his desk. "He's annoying. And he smells weird."

Legolas laughed before he could help it. "Thank you," he said, rubbing his temples. "What have you two been doing?"

"We were out in the forest, precious," Sméagol said, hopping up beside her. "Up high in the trees."

"I think your dad's coming home," Marty said. "There's a lot of people on the other side of the forest."

"Surely you cannot see that far," Legolas said, even as his heart leapt at the thought.

"The lines can," she said, sitting cross-legged and nearly upending an empty wine glass, "and I can see the lines."

He went still. He knew very little of Sharley, or of how she functioned, but he _did_ know that she had described Time as a series of lines. "Marty," he asked carefully, looking into her milky eyes, "are you like your mother?" What a boon _that_ could be.

The little girl shrugged. "Kinda," she said. "I can't do anything with Time, but I sorta see it. And your dad's coming home, but with a lot more people than he left with, living and zombie." She elbowed Sméagol, who was sniffing at a corked wine bottle. "That's gross, don't get into it."

"Why not, precious?" he asked, turning it over in his spidery hands.

"It makes people stupid. And it tastes nasty. Just don't tell Mama I know that," she added, looking back at Legolas.

"Is your mother with them?" _Will she take Sméagol off my hands?_

"No," the girl said, hunching over and hugging herself. "Mama's…Mama's bad. Sméagol and I were gonna go find her."

"By yourselves? Marty, you cannot do that. I promised her I would look after you both." Should Sharley return, and find both her daughter _and_ her odd charge gone, he didn't want to know _what_ she would do to him. He did know there was no way it would be pleasant.

"I don't need looking after," she said. "I'm dead – it's not like anything can happen to me. I happen to other things."

"Even so, I promised your mother, and I think it unwise to break an oath sworn to her," he said, and meant every word of it.

She gave him a look far too keen and assessing for a child, and he wondered how old she really was. "You don't understand," she said, with a very adult flatness, "a bad guy has her. A _really_ bad guy."

"Do you know his name?" Legolas asked, humoring her.

"Sauron."

He stared at her, blood turning to ice within his veins. " _What?_ "

She rolled her eyes. "Sauron. There was a big fight between him and your dad's army, the Memories ate a lotta people, and he ran off with Mama. Can we _go_ now?"

Legolas could only stare.

* * *

Aragorn had been through Mirkwood several times, but it had never looked like this. And not just because a portion of it was missing.

A wide swath of it had been torn right out of the ground, leaving a road wide enough for their massive horde to traverse, but the biggest change was the feel of the forest itself: there was a lightness to it, as though an old, heavy weight had been lifted from it. There was not a spiderweb to be seen, and the trees that still stood seemed greener than he had ever seen them. They were filled with birdsong, too, and he saw a surprising number of deer and rabbits.

King Thranduil himself seemed lighter, now that they were within his realm. His people mourned, but being so near their home visibly eased their grief, and their songs around their campfires were now not solely laments.

Aragorn and Elladan joined Thranduil and his wife at their campfire that night, leaning in close for warmth. Autumn was barely upon them, yet it seemed each night grew colder than the last. It did not seem to bother Thranduil at all, but Lorna, tiny creature that she was, sat wrapped up in – and swamped by – his cloak. She kept trying to surreptitiously itch her wound on it, and every time she did, Thranduil poked her.

"Mittens, Lorna," he warned, when she glowered at him.

"Eyebrows, Thranduil," she retorted, trying to mimic his voice and failing utterly.

"Eyebrows?" Aragorn asked.

"My eyebrows offend her," Thranduil said dryly. "She has been threatening to shave them off almost as long as I have known her, and yet I still have them."

"For now," she growled, and rubbed at the scab with the heel of her right hand. "Hush, you. I'm not scratching."

"I believe the term in your language is 'rules-lawyering'," he said, and grabbed her, cloak and all, before pulling her onto his lap and catching both her hands.

"Berk," she grumbled, wincing. "That hurt."

"I will make it up to you later."

"You'd better."

Marriage must have greatly changed King Thranduil, for this was not at all the ellon Legolas had described. Imperious, yes, and caustic, but not at all cold. Aragorn was quite certain he could be vicious and downright terrifying if he wished, but that was not his default state of being. This was a Thranduil they could live with.

Hopefully.

"Milady, what is your native tongue called?" Aragorn asked.

She left off trying to free her hands, and burst out laughing. "Not you, too," she said. "Just call me Lorna, and I've two'v them: Irish, which is the native language'v my country, and English, which those bloody bastards exported all over the damn globe. I can also mangle Russian and Welsh, more or less."

"And now you have Sindarin and Westron."

"Well, I cheated with the Westron," she admitted. "And my Sindarin was crap, until Thranduil, um, intervened. And no, I will not explain that, because I'm not sure I even could."

"Her penmanship is still atrocious," Thranduil put in.

"That's only because you people write with bloody _feathers_ ," she retorted. "And your paper's not what I'd call paper at all. This world's very, very different from mine," she explained. "We haven't got magic – or didn't, until recently – so we invented technology instead. Which included ballpoint pens and actual paper. I still can't write a full page without breaking a quill, so I quit trying."

"You will have to, if I ever actually get around to crowning you," Thranduil said dryly. "You can share in all the duties I love so very much."

She paled. "You _wouldn't_ ," she said, trying to turn around to look at him. "Don't you bloody dare."

He arched an eyebrow. "'Queen Lorna' does have a nice ring to it."

"If you actually do want to keep your eyebrows, you'll put _that_ thought to bed right now," she warned. "I might be your wife, but I'll not be anyone's queen.

"You _did_ marry a king," Elladan pointed out.

"Well, not on _purpose_ ," she said. "And he wasn't exactly acting very kingly. Only time I've ever seen him trip."

Thranduil glowered down at her. "You were wrecking my wardrobe.

"No, I was improving it. It needed a few thousand more rhinestones. You'd've been a walking Disco ball."

He didn't actually roll his eyes, but Aragorn suspected he wanted to. "Just for that, I am making you a crown. And you will have to wear a dress when I give it to you."

Trust Thranduil to find the one woman in all of Middle-Earth who _wouldn't_ want to be a queen. Her expression of abject horror was not feigned. "I can't even think'v a horrible enough retaliation right now," she said, "but trust me, it would be epic."

"I look forward to discovering it," Thranduil said. "Queen Lorna."

"I think I liked it better when you called me 'little stranger'," she grumbled, curling into a distinctly sullen ball. "And my face still itches."

"Just wait until your back starts to itch. Then you'll _really_ have something to complain about."

"Oh, joy," she deadpanned. "I want my own bed."

Thranduil said something in one of her tongues – something that, amazingly, sent Elladan crimson.

"Kindly do us a favor and wait until you are home," he said.

"Unfortunately, we rather have to. Lorna's wounds are still too raw."

It took Aragorn a moment to work that one out, and then he was downright disturbed. He really did not need the mental images that conjured up. With their height difference, he had no idea how it would work anyway.

"I dunno," she said, eying Thranduil speculatively. "We could get creative."

"Please do not," Elladan said, sounding pained. "Menelwen has told me horror stories."

"Oh, fine. Spoilsport."

* * *

Yes, they are almost home. Fortunately for poor Legolas.

Title means "Meeting" in Irish. As always, your reviews are what keep me going, and let me know I'm still on track or not.


	12. Ag filleadh

In which Sharley discovers something very bad (and Sauron goes along for the ride), the Elves and their assorted dead reach the Halls (and Legolas is very grateful), and Lorna and Thranduil plot murder (using a bathtub, while in it).

* * *

When Sharley came back to the land of the living – so to speak – it was dawn, pearl grey and clear, the ground – and her – wet with dew. To the west, though, clouds were massing, sickly yellow and deep purple, and her heart sank. That was a goddamn magic-storm, and Von Ratched couldn't have created _that_ one; not with where it was located. It was all wrong for Thorvald, too.

It wasn't precisely right for a magic-storm, either. There was something else, something darker, not seen but _felt_.

Well. She had something to look at, at least, to show Sauron just what it was that she saw. She was awake, but he lingered in her mind, supervised – hopefully – by the Stranger. This probably wouldn't drive him crazy, given that he was, well, _Sauron_ , but she doubted he'd enjoy it much, either. _She_ probably wasn't going to, come to that, because she doubted she was going to see anything good. Not coming from something that looked like _that_.

Her visual acuity wasn't actually any greater than, say, an Elf, if it was even that good. She couldn't see over vast distances, but she _could_ follow the lines of Time, once she found one that actually led where she needed to go. And by now she had enough practice to do that, if not easily, then at least without a vast amount of trouble.

 _She grabbed at the heaviest, the thick cable than ran through the history of the battle. Blood spattered before her eyes, red and black, vanishing again in less than a blink. Flat-eyed Memories with their razor claws, the terror and rage of orcs and Elves, brief flashes of agony not her own, gone as swiftly as they had come._

 _That was what_ had _happened, but overlaying it, and entwined with it, was what_ could _have happened. The ghost-image of corpses of those who had not actually died lay on the trampled earth, unseen and unheeded by all save her – and Sauron. The Memories might have killed everyone, everyone save the pair of them, and spread out into Middle-Earth, hungry and hunting. Had they done that, she never could have caught them all, and even one would have spelled doom for the world. In this timeline they wandered out into the dark, each trailing its own monstrous line of potentiality, its list of victims who did not yet know they were dead._

 _But the line, the true line, moved past them, easing from past to present and back again. A flash of history, magma spewing from the earth, approached and left behind in a heartbeat she didn't have. Battles both recent and ancient, flashes of peace and life, forests that had stretched across the land since Yevanna first created them._

 _The line splintered off into another nine, and she sorted through them as fast as thought, discarding this or that one – some were potentialities unmet, others that she was sure would go nowhere. On and on she went, ghosting through Time, what was and what wasn't, what had and hadn't been, through heat and cold, ice and blistering sun, until she reached Angmar._

 _Angmar, that never was._

 _She felt Sauron stir within her mind, clearly intrigued, but she had no time for him yet, for she had found what she was looking for – and really, really wished she hadn't. Horror flooded her veins, the like of which she had not known since she first woke up from her own death, and saw what her father had made of her._

"That's impossible," _Kurt said flatly_. "Absolutely fucking impossible."

"Then how is it there?" _Layla asked, quavering._

 _"I don't know," Sharley said grimly, "but we have to find out."_

"And what the hell d'you think we can do about in then?" _Kurt demanded._

 _"I never thought I'd say this, but at least we've got Sauron. I think we're gonna need him._

"We're all gonna die, aren't we?" _Jimmy said._

 _"_ We _already did. It's everyone else that's fucked."_

* * *

As soon as they came in sight of the gates to his Halls, Thranduil felt a great weight lift from his chest. Whatever was to come, whatever future nightmare might await, they were _home_. Tonight he would sleep, though he was not truly weary, just because he could do so in his own bed. Galion and Legolas could find room for all their unexpected guests. He simply wanted a _bath_ , even if Lorna's wounds meant they couldn't take a long one. They could get down to the business of truly organizing everything tomorrow, once everyone had had a rest. He would put off worrying how he was to feed them all over the winter, too – and he wasn't even going to _think_ about what was going to happen when the people of Lothlórien arrived. They would all have been far wiser simply to take ship, and he wondered why they had not. They had no ties to Middle-Earth save each other.

But they were here now, and he was stuck with them. At least he had Legolas to share the load – Legolas, who he found already in his study, surrounded by empty wine-bottles, looking distinctly frazzled.

"Thank Eru you are home," he said, leaping to his feet. "Adar, you are never allowed to leave again, and I order you to live forever. I do not want your job."

Thranduil actually laughed. "Do you understand me better, ionneg?"

" _Yes_ ," Legolas said. "I do not know how you have not banished half the kingdom before now. If I did not have little Marty to frighten people away, I would not have known a moment's peace. I do not know how to scare them away on my own."

"It is a skill that must be cultivated," Thranduil said dryly. "But the halls still stand, so you have clearly been doing something right. You have done well to hold it this long."

Legolas gave him a tired smile. "Thank you, Adar. Help, I can give. Lead, I would much rather not. But Adar, Marty told me something – she said that _Sauron_ is at large, and has her mother. Please tell me that is not true."

"Unfortunately, it is," Thranduil sighed. "However, it is perhaps not as unfortunate as we fear. If he has to be at large, at least he is distracted. For now. Go and rest, ionneg – we will speak more of it tomorrow, when I can call a council."

If Legolas all but fled the study…well, Thranduil could not blame him. Instead, he went to fill the tub.

* * *

Lorna all but inhaled a plate of fruit and cheese while Galasríniel looked at her back. After weeks of travel rations, even so simple a change was amazing.

"Can I actually take a bath?" she asked, after her last mouthful. "A _real_ bath?"

"As long as all you do in it is _bathe_ ," the healer said pointedly. "I will not sanction anything else. No strenuous activities of any kind."

"Tell that to Thranduil," Lorna said.

"I will leave _that_ to you. If you come back here with those wounds re-opened, I will not be pleased, and you will not like the results. I do not care if he _is_ my king – when it comes to our patients, a healer's word is law, even over a king's."

Her expression was really rather terrified, and Lorna found herself nodding. She and Thranduil were more than capable of creativity, and Galasríniel need never know. "Gotcha," she said.

Galasríniel's eyebrows furrowed. "What?"

"It means I understand. We'll be careful." Thranduil would not appreciate a lecture, no matter how much he might or might not deserve it. Neither would she, come to that.

"Good. Go, and do be careful. I mean it."

Go Lorna did, bearing a small jar of anti-itch cream in her pocket. If Thranduil hadn't already drawn a bath, she'd be very surprised.

She had to weave through an immense crowd, living and dead, to reach her rooms – not an easy thing, at her diminutive height, and she was glad enough to get there.

A small mirror hung on the wall of the bedroom, and she dragged over a stool to look in it. What she found…wasn't all that bad, actually. The cut was deep, but narrow, and though there would be no hiding the scar, she thought it looked a bit badass – or at least, not hideous. She hadn't been, say, Katje to begin with, so it wasn't jarring. This was a thing she could easily live with, especially since it missed her eye. Thranduil's vision of her hadn't been as tainted by the fact that he loved her as she'd feared.

Lorna hopped off the stool and headed to the bathroom, which was emitting a huge cloud of steam. Her skin, covered in dry sweat, itched for hot water, and her hair needed a good wash or two. Or four.

She was not at all surprised to find Thranduil had lit a number of candles, rather than the lamps – he could be surprisingly romantic, when he felt like it, even if it mostly just made her laugh. He himself, still mostly dressed, was adding something to the water from a blue glass bottle.

"I should warn you that Galasríniel assured me that if I open up these scabs through any 'strenuous activity', she will make certain we both regret it," she said. "She was actually a bit scary, honestly."

"She is a healer," he said dryly. "Neither she nor you need worry, however – the bath is merely a bath."

"Good to know," she said, shucking her clothes without grace or hesitation. Sinking into the tub was like heaven, even if the water did sting her scabs a bit. It smelled like lavender, and she shut her eyes a moment to breathe it in, tilting her head back to get her hair wet.

"I will never take a bath for granted again," she said, sighing happily as she crossed the stupidly large tub. The center was so deep she actually had to swim a little before she reached Thranduil, who caught her and pulled her close.

"Try going seven years without a proper one," he said, wrapping his arms around her waist, careful not to touch her wounds.

Lorna made a face, resting her un-injured cheek on his shoulder. "Ew, no thank you. At least you people don't seem to really get dirty, unlike us stinky humans."

"After seven years, we do," he said dryly. "And I think your hair is attempting to eat me."

"It's just being friendly. I'd eat you in a fun way, but, you know, cuts. Also, I'm tired." She shut her eyes again, her left hand drifting up to rest over his heart. Elves – or at least Thranduil – seemed to have a slower resting heartbeat than humans, and she often slept with either her head or her hand on his chest, to make sure it kept beating.

"Time enough for that later," he said, carefully stroking her back between the wounds. "For now, it is enough that we are home." She felt him laugh, though the sound itself was quiet. "With so many people here, accommodations will have to be re-arranged. It is only fitting that the leaders of our guests be housed in our wing – I will have the private dining-hall and meeting-room converted to appropriate quarters for Elrond and Galadriel and Celeborn. Once all are settled, we will be free to traumatize them at our leisure."

Lorna burst out laughing. "Okay, A.) that's mean, and B.) I don't think it's possible to traumatize Galadriel."

He ran his fingers through her hair. "Perhaps not, but I have tried for two thousand years to drag an actual facial expression out of Celeborn. I wager we can make him blush."

"If you say so. I can't say I'd mind trying, from a personal standpoint." She was never going to walk straight again, was she? Oh well.

"Good. We will see who turns reddest." He sat up straighter, taking her with him as he grabbed a bottle of shampoo. "Perhaps if I wash your hair, it will cease its attempts to eat me."

"It only tries to tie you up because it loves you," she said, flailing a little. "You know, you could really easily murder someone in this tub. A few someones."

"Do not give me ideas, Dilthen Ettelëa. I do not doubt that sooner or later I will want to."

* * *

Legolas was beyond grateful to have his father home. It meant he did not feel at all guilty about going to the wine cellar and drinking himself into a stupor.

Unsurprisingly, Elladan joined him, once he'd washed away the grime of the road. Tauriel followed soon enough, and Arwen, who usually wasn't one for such things. Their trip must have been worse than he suspected.

They sat around a table with a large, somewhat hideous green lamp, surrounded by rapidly-emptying bottles.

"We have to hunt," Elladan said. " _Everything_. We may as well, since all the game we spare will only die in the darkness anyway."

The thought pained Legolas. The forest had been sick for much of his life, but it lived, and even now there were a few places that remained fair. Even once the darkness receded, how could they recover from it?

He asked as much aloud, and Arwen shook her head.

"I do not know," she said. "Some may sail. Those of us that stay will think of something. We will have no choice."

"That is not encouraging," Elladan sighed.

"Nothing about this is," Tauriel grumbled. "Lord Elladan, are the people of Lothlórien _really_ coming here, too?"

"They are. The Woodland Realm is the only safe place to ride out this darkness, and too many are not yet ready to sail. I imagine we will be as crowded as Gondolin."

"Do not say that," Legolas groaned. "Do not compare us to that doomed city."

"Nargothrond?" he offered.

"Again, doomed. And before you mention Doriath, also doomed."

"That is even less encouraging. More wine, I think, is needed," Elladan said firmly.

* * *

Prince Legolas had told Marty that she and Sméagol weren't to go looking for Mama, but the only boss of Marty _was_ Mama. If Sauron had his dad, she'd bet nobody could tell _him_ to stay put, so she didn't feel any need to. There were so many new people running around that nobody would notice they'd left until long after they were gone.

That was the plan, anyway. They were sneaking along a little-known path, quiet and unnoticed, when they found the tall Elf-lady, the one who had made friends with Mama, standing in their way. _She_ saw them, and there was a look in her eyes, the same kind Mama and Grandma Jary sometimes had – Marty never had been able to put words around it.

"Not yet, Marty," she said, kneeling so they were at eye-level. "Your mother does not yet need your help, but we do. My Mirror shows me much, but there are things from your world that I do not understand. You must make them clear to me."

Marty eyed her closely – this beautiful, old, _old_ lady, with her blue eyes that went on forever. She was pretty sure she was being fed a line of bullshit – she couldn't imagine Lady Galadriel ever needing any help, let alone from _her_ – but…she kind of wanted to listen anyway. Galadriel, somehow, was a lot like Grandma Jary, even though she looked and sounded totally different.

"But…Sauron's got my mama," Marty said.

"Yes," Galadriel said, "he does, but you know that he cannot harm her. Right now, it is his help she needs."

"He _helps_ her?" Sméagol asked, twitching a little.

"He has no choice. For now, they have a common enemy. You are very brave, Marty, but you cannot fight as your mother does, and were you taken, it would only cause your mother pain and fear."

Marty pondered that. "I don't wanna just _sit_ , though," she said. "That's all I've done so far. I wanna _do_ something."

Galadriel smiled, and it was like warm summer sunshine. "Sméagol, I know you know how to hunt," she said. "You must teach Marty. We will need a great deal of food, to see us through this darkness, and all the hunters we can find."

Still Marty eyed her, rather dubiously. Somehow, it managed to be both truth _and_ bullshit at the same time, but Galadriel was not an easy person to ignore. Much of Marty _wanted_ to listen to her, even as the only thing she wanted to hunt was Mama.

"Marty," Galadriel said in English, "if you leave, Sméagol will follow, and you will get him killed. Where your mother goes is no place for the living."

Well, okay, that definitely wasn't bullshit. Sméagol really would go wherever she went, and the living really did seem to die way too easily. She couldn't leave him off to his death.

"I still hate this," she said, her voice not quite steady. "I know Mama can't die anymore, but _still_."

Galadriel took her hands. "We must simply keep you too busy to think on it," she said."Your mother will return to you, Marty. Of that I have no doubt. Meanwhile, you can help in many ways."

* * *

Von Ratched was utterly fascinated.

He'd read of this place, of course, but Tolkien hadn't been long on details of the caverns themselves. How _caves_ could look like this…Elves and their craftsmanship were irritatingly perfect. Columns carved into trees, complete with moss and creeping vines, filled with winding, aerial pathways, but what he really wanted to know was where the hell the _light_ was coming from. Some of it was lanterns, obviously, but they couldn't possibly be the only source.

What he really wanted to see, however, were the healing wards – once he had had a bath and a decent meal.

It was certainly a relief to (finally) be in a place that did not smell of sewage, human or equine, and while the room he appropriated was plain, it suited his taste well enough.

What it lacked, unfortunately, were actual bathing facilities. Apparently, most Elves bathed communally, in various bathhouse arrangements through the caverns, which meant he had to actually go and find one, and hope there wasn't a gigantic queue.

Then again, even if there was, he hardly cared. Once he'd gotten rid of the grime, he would explore.

* * *

Fortunately, none of Lorna's scabs split or cracked, but Thranduil was careful anyway when he dried them. Even with Von Ratched's strange aid, he still did know how she'd survived.

She handed him a little pot of some pale cream. "Galasríniel said that ought to do for the itching," she said. "It'll have to dry before I put a shirt on, though."

He led her out into the bedroom, to the chair at his dressing-table. The heat of the water had softened the scabs, so he was even more careful while applying it.

She jumped a little when he touched her back, and he stilled. "Did that hurt?"

"No – it's just cold. _Really_ cold, for having sat in that sauna."

He started again, lightly dabbing it down the cut, and she giggled when he reached her ribs. "I had forgotten you were ticklish," he said dryly.

"Yeah, well, no capitalizing on it yet, Mister, or Galasríniel'll rip us both a new one. She must have been really bored, with so many'v us away." She paused. "Oh God, she won't be bored much longer – not with Von Ratched around. She's going to hate life _and_ us."

"At least it will keep him occupied," Thranduil sighed. " _Something_ has to, until we can discover where he's put his weapons."

"We still going to kill him, once we know?" she asked, turning her head to look at him.

"I do not see that we have much choice. Not with the things he is capable of. He's far too dangerous to live." It was surely only a matter of time before he tried to touch someone else's mind.

"I'm just glad to be _home_ ," she said, cracking her neck. "I'm not even going to worry about that bastard right now. I just want to put on my actual pyjamas and go to sleep in my own bed. You'd best be coming with me, too."

"Of course I am," he said, dabbing the salve onto the last of the cuts. "I will not spend my first night at home making lists and directing people. Stay there." He rose, and went to dig through Lorna's wardrobe. Compared to him, she had very few clothes, all of them far more functional than aesthetic. Her sleepwear was no exception – a long nightdress of off-white cotton, sturdy and durable and nothing more.

She was going to get at least one real dress, and she was going to get a crown, and she would damn well like both. If he had to deal with this many foreign Elves – and their leaders – under his roof, he wanted her beside him in title as well as in reality. She might not want to be Queen Lorna, but she was going to wind up fulfilling all the duties of a queen whether he crowned her or not, so she may as well actually accept the title.

Her crown would be silver, he'd decided, though he doubted he could find a stone that would match the unearthly shade of her eyes. She might call his creepy, but, love her though he did, he thought hers just as unsettling. He'd keep it simple, something suitable for such a small person, and he wouldn't drown her in Elven finery. She was not an Elf; she was Lorna, and whatever he made her would reflect that.

"You have your thoughtful face on," she said, when he helped her into the garment. "Should I be worried?"

"Probably," he said, pulling the damp fall of her hair out of her way. "But for now, sleep. Worry later."

He'd swear that he had actually forgotten just how soft his bed was, the covers heavy and warm, his tiny Edain wife warmer, even if her hair was chilly along his arm. Tomorrow, and it's inevitable irritants, could wait.

* * *

Yep, everyone's home, except poor Sharley, who isn't having a good time. At all.

Title means "Returning" in Irish. As always, your reviews are what keep me going.

Celly: Sharley and her daughter are also from my books – they just didn't show up until book three.


	13. Dul chun cinn

In which Lorna and Thranduil are sweet (in their warped way), Tauriel wants to kill Legolas (and he is right to be afraid), Ratiri and Sigrid bond (over cold), and Sharley and Sauron have issues (like that's anything new).

* * *

Lorna woke the next morning both sore and sinfully comfortable. In her own bed, she'd had the best night's sleep she'd had in weeks, the mattress like a cloud, the blankets and Thranduil wonderfully warm. Unfortunately, her back was still her back. At least the anti-itch cream was working.

Thranduil seemed to be asleep, if his fixed stare at the ceiling was any indication. Never, ever would she get used to the fact that Elves slept with their eyes open, though he'd told her that to him, she looked just as corpse-like in sleep. At least they both creeped each other out.

He woke, however, when she tried to squirm out of his very careful embrace. "Why are you getting up?" he complained.

"Because I need to pee and brush my teeth. I'll be right back."

"Oh, fine. You mortals and your bladders."

"Hush, you." She shivered when her feet touched the cold floor, and detoured to poke the fire back to life, adding some wood. There were many things she loved about Middle-Earth, but she really missed central heating. The bathroom was even colder, and she reflected that there really wasn't much more unpleasant than a chilly toilet seat.

She brushed her teeth as fast as she could, then darted back out to the bed and burrowed under the blankets again. Moving so fast pulled at her scabs, and she winced. "So what are we doing today?"

He didn't answer right away – just twined his fingers in her tangled hair. "Legolas will be directing the settlement of all of our guests," he said at last. "You and I must arrange a funeral service."

That sobered her. She'd been deliberately not thinking of it, because she wanted to get home without going crazy, and she'd put that block on the worst of Thranduil's grief. "You'll have to tell me what to do," she said, wrapping her left arm across his chest. "If you have memories of Elvish funerals, I didn't get them."

"I know you do not want to be a queen, but as my wife, in this you must function as one," he sighed.

"I figured as much. It's not the job I have a problem with, it's the title. Right now I'll play whatever part I need to." She'd been pretty sure for a while now that she'd have to take up the technical mantle sooner or later, but she really didn't want the name.

"Why do you objet to it so?" he asked, rubbing her shoulders.

Now Lorna was the one who sighed. "You'll think it's stupid."

"Tell me anyway."

She leaned back to look at him. "I don't know how much'v Ireland's history you got from my memory, but we spent a thousand years getting fucked over by England's kings and queens," she said, "and I do mean fucked over. Murdered, starved, even used as slave labor sometimes. That might not seem like a long time to you, but that's hundreds'v generations of humans. We only got independence as our own country less than a hundred years ago. That was sixty-odd years before I was born, but few people in the world can hold a grudge like the Irish.

"I grew up listening to all the old people talk about what a goddamn mess things were then – hell, the old bloke two doors down had fought in the Easter Rising. It was bloody brutal, put down on the orders of England's king, and all because we were sick'v being shat on. I've got issues with monarchy, is what I'm saying."

Thranduil looked visibly disturbed. "Your people Kinslay far too easily."

"Tell me about it. Though I doubt it's much different here."

"Unfortunately, I think you are right." He gave her a curious look. "Did you have issues with me, being a king?"

"At first, yeah," she admitted. "Didn't help that you scared the shite out'v me. But then I saw you were the sort'v king ours were always _meant_ to be, and that your people respected you. Anyway, that's why I don't want to be a queen."

He laughed, but it was subdued. "You are going to be one, whether I crown you or not. Our people know you, but Elrond's and Galadriel's do not. They will treat you as queen because you are my wife, and there is no way you will ever disabuse them of the notion. You may as well let me give you a crown and have done with it."

The thought was genuinely appalling. He probably wasn't kidding; she knew how stubborn Elves could be. "I hope you don't expect me to actually _act_ like a queen," she said. "I wouldn't know how, even if I wanted to, which I totally don't."

"You are who you are, Lorna," he said. "I would not have you change that. I would, however, like to publicly crown you at some point – and before you object, it is because I think our people will appreciate it. After such loss as we have suffered, it will do them good to have something positive to think on."

Lorna shuddered. She didn't like that idea _at all_ , but he was probably right, dammit. "Do I have to say…vows, or anything?"

"Yes," he said, stroking her hair, "but I doubt anyone will mind if you misspeak. As I said, our people know you, and Elrond's will come to soon enough."

The mere thought filled her with dread, but if it would help, she'd do it. "Okay," she said. "But you'd better not make my crown look stupid. And do I _really_ have to wear a dress?"

Thranduil laughed again. "I will not, and yes," he said. "I will not put you in anything elaborate, but you do need a dress."

"It better not be elaborate," she grumbled. "I'm too short to wear most Elf clothes. I'd look like a little kid playing dress-up." She paused. "Is Legolas going to have a problem with this? I mean, yeah, he's accepted we're married, because it was an accident. But his mother was the queen, and in his eyes, she probably always will be."

"He might," Thranduil admitted, "but hopefully not once I have explained my reasoning. I ought – I have never spoken of Anameleth, even to him, since the day that she did. He was so young that I do not know how much he remembers of her."

Privately, Lorna thought that was absolutely awful, but she was hardly going to say so. The only reason she could think of for his silence would be the fact that it hurt too much, and that was something she could understand. "Would you be able to tell him about her now?"

Thranduil shut his eyes. "I do not know," he said. "I can try." He didn't sound at all confident.

She sat up, looking down at him. "If you can't, would you mind if I did?" she asked gently. "I have so many'v your memories of her. I know how much you loved, and still love, her."

He froze, as she'd figured he would. There was a hefty chance this would _really_ piss him off, but she had to ask anyway.

He was quiet for a very, very long time, and she let him be. That would not be an easy question for him to answer.

"He will wonder why it comes from you, and not me," he said at last.

"Because losing her destroyed you," Lorna said. "I understand that. You're the only one who knows much'v anything about Liam. If my kid had lived, I don't know how much I could've told him or her about him. Not after how I'd lost him."

Thranduil stayed very still. "Do you have my memories of Anameleth's death?"

Lorna shut her eyes. "Yes," she said. "I've seen…all'v it."

He sighed. "I wish you had not."

"I don't," she said, opening her eyes. "Like I said, I'd rather you not carry your pain alone. You've had to do that for way too long. I get why you could never talk about it – who else could ever understand? But I saw what you saw, and felt what you felt, just like you did with me and Liam."

He touched her chin. "May I say something utterly terrible?"

"Go for it."

"I do not know how much I would have loved you, had you not suffered such loss," he said. "Had you not understood. We are very different, Dilthen Ettelëa, and not just in race, but we have some truly horrible things in common. Things that connect people across the divide of race and age."

Okay, that _was_ pretty terrible, but she couldn't really get angry over it. "That's pretty damn awful, but…I think it's mutual. If you were any other Elf, I don't know that I'd've loved you."

"There is likely something wrong with the fact that we can bond over that," he mused. "You may talk to Legolas, but – not yet. Not when we have so very much to do."

"Deal. And we should probably get up, before someone comes hammering on our door."

* * *

Legolas was profoundly grateful for Elladan's help. Between the pair of them, Galion, and Tauriel (who protested that her involvement really shouldn't be necessary, now that everyone was home) they made real headway at actually sorting out the issue of housing. There was more than enough space for Elrond's people, but the addition of the population of Lothlórien would make accommodations rather cramped. It would be difficult for everyone, since Imladris and Lothlórien were both quite spacious, and their people unused to living underground.

Still, it would work, once they'd fully figured out _how_. Wholly new quarters would have to be built, wherever they could be put. The four of them were hard at work on plans when his father found them, looking exasperated.

"Ionneg, did you _really_ dismiss half my council?" he asked, with a raised brow.

"They were useless," Legolas said, "and thought they could take advantage of the fact that I wasn't you."

"With several of them, I am not surprised. I leave it to you to choose their successors."

Legolas looked at Tauriel, who looked utterly horrified.

" _No_ ," she said. "The Council is meant to be made up of nobility, isn't it?" she added, turning a beseeching look to Thranduil.

"Nobles are useless," Legolas said. "Adar, Tauriel is one of the only reasons I did not drink myself to death in your absence."

"The others?"

"Galion and Marty." He strongly doubted his father would allow him to appoint a butler, a guard, and a zombie child – perhaps that would take this task out of his hands.

His father's eyes flicked from Tauriel to Galion. "Fine," he said. "You have four more places to fill." He was gone before Legolas could protest.

Silence followed that, and then Tauriel kicked him. Hard. "I hate you so much," she growled.

* * *

Elrond was at something of a loss.

It had been over a century since he had been away from Imladris, and he hadn't been to the Woodland Realm since Thranduil's coronation a thousand years ago. The halls had not changed much since then, but Elven realms rarely did. He'd spent so much energy and effort getting here that now that he _was_ here, he didn't know what to do. His son, being far more familiar with the halls, was seeing to the practical arrangements, and Thranduil would be busy with more somber tasks.

In the end, he decided to seek out Galadriel. His mother-by-marriage had, according to Elladan, been here since the previous winter, and he wanted her counsel.

The paths and parapets were mercifully less crowded, but he still nearly stepped on an Edain child. A _dead_ Edain child.

She wasn't one of his dead, but dead she unquestionably was. Her eyes were milky, not bloody, but her skin held the same blue-marble pallor, and at the collar of her green tunic he could see the beginning of what would have been a gruesome wound on a living person.

"Hi," she said in Sindarin. "Are you Elladan's dad? You look alike."

Before he could respond, a…creature…crept up behind her. "He's another Elf, precious."

She rolled her white eyes. " _Duh._ But he's a new Elf. Elladan's dad, this is Sméagol. Sméagol, I'm pretty sure this is Elladan's dad. You say 'hi' when you meet people, remember?"

"Hi," Sméagol said obediently, and Elrond wondered just what in Eru's name had been going on here already.

"Hello, Sméagol. Do you have a name, little one?"

The child smacked her forehead, running a hand through her long hair. It was the same shade of silver-blonde as Thranduil and Legolas's. "Oops. I'm Marty. I didn't come here with your dead guys, but I came from the same place they did. You look lost. Are you lost?"

Her _speech_ was certainly losing him. "In a sense," he said. "I seek the Lady Galadriel."

Marty brightened. "Oh, _I_ know her," she said. "We can take you to her. C'mon."

Elrond didn't recognize that last word, but it seemed she intended for him to follow her – them, since Sméagol bounded off ahead, sometimes on all fours.

"He does that," Marty said. "We're working on it. He's better than he was, but he's got a long way to go."

They ascended a flight of wide, shallow steps, onto an aerial walkway. The stone had been carved to mimic a great tree branch, the stone textured like bark. Dark green moss grew within the fissures of the carving, and in places delicate deer-ferns had actually taken root. It would seem that the sicker the forest outside had become, the more the inside had come to resemble what it should be. The rushing of a nearby waterfall reminded him starkly of home. The idea of living underground hadn't filled him with enthusiasm, but now that he was here, he thought perhaps he could manage it.

They were waylaid by Elladan, Legolas, and a red-haired elleth in a Guard uniform, who looked ready to murder someone. Legolas was carefully staying rather far from her, and Elladan was obviously trying not to laugh.

"Marty," he said. "Just the person we were looking for. Congratulations, child – you have been appointed to King Thranduil's council."

Elrond's eyes widened, but the girl looked totally nonplussed. "What's that?"

Behind Elladan, Legolas shut his eyes in silent pain. "If you come with us, we will explain," he sighed. He very nearly looked ill.

"I hesitate to ask," Elrond said.

His son's grey eyes danced with mirth. "Legolas half disbanded the Council while his father was away, and chose others to aid him – among them Tauriel, and Marty here. King Thranduil told him to appoint them permanently, and to fill the rest of the seats as he saw fit."

Elrond's eyebrows rose. _That_ was entirely unlike the Thranduil he had ever known. The strangers had obviously had a rather large effect on him.

"I am _supposed_ to be captain of the Guard," the elleth – Tauriel – said mutinously. "Legolas, if this interferes with my duties, I will – what is it Lorna says? Oh yes, I will murder you in the face."

Elladan dissolved into helpless laughter, and Legolas looked more nervous than ever.

"Help me choose who will share in your suffering?" he offered.

Her eyes narrowed. "Oh, I will," she said. "You _and_ your father will heartily regret this."

Elrond had no doubt at all that they would.

He rather wanted to watch.

* * *

When Ratiri woke, it was to find his bedroom so cold that he could see his breath, and his window opaque with frost. He bundled into his clothes as quick as he could, and hurried down to the comparative warmth of the kitchen. And it was 'comparative'; Sigrid had only just lit a fire.

"Is what, first September?" he complained, not knowing what to call the month in Westron. "Why so cold?"

"Sometimes it happens that way," she said, pouring water into the big pot on the stove. "It will warm later. You act as though you have never seen frost before."

"Not that," he said, shivering. "My world, we heat our home different. Always warm, with no fire."

Interest sparked in her hazel eyes. She'd always been curious about Earth, but he didn't speak nearly enough Westron to explain much, and anymore Arandur was rarely on hand to translate. "How do you do it?"

"Electricity," he said, moving to stand in front of the fire. "Like lightning, but…tame."

Her eyes widened. "You have _tamed_ lightning?"

"We make it. Sort of." Even if he spoke better Westron, he doubted he could explain hydroelectric dams to her, especially as he had only a had a hazy understanding of how they worked himself.

"Your world must be amazing," she sighed, crossing the room to stand by the fire herself. She was wrapped up in a very old dressing gown, that had likely been her mother's.

"I think I like Middle-Earth better," he said, and more or less meant it. There were a great many things he missed from Earth, things he had always taken for granted, yet he found he didn't want to go back – and not just because of the situation with the cursed.

She tilted her head, regarding him with greater curiosity. "Why?"

He sought a way to explain, in his limited Westron. "It is…simple, here. My world is very…" he didn't know the word for 'complex', so he laced his fingers together, miming tangling string.

"Difficult?" she supplied.

"Yes," he said. "Too many things. Too much to do that should not need to do. Here is cold, but simple." What he _really_ missed was modern medicine, but between the Elves, humans, and Dwarves, they were on their way, at least. That, and indoor plumbing. He sometimes dreamed of long, hot showers, and he knew Katje did, too. Now that all their guns and bullets were made, she was apparently working on some designs with the Dwarves.

"After all I have heard of your world, I wondered why anyone would ever want to leave it," Sigrid said. "I do not think I would like anything more complicated than this one."

"You would hate it," he agreed. "Many do." He had no idea how to explain poverty and homelessness, though he was certain Middle-Earth had plenty of both itself. The difference was that on Earth, with all its resources and technology, neither should exist. Human greed was mostly to blame.

"Did you?"

Ratiri considered that. "I did," he said, "but I did not know it until I come here, away from all that."

"If the darkness comes, you may well change your mind," she sighed.

"No," he said thoughtfully, "I do not think so. Not with what is happen to my kind on Earth. Maybe I die here, but I would die there. Where I was, before I was here…." _That_ he couldn't talk about, even if he'd had the words. Even yet he had nightmares about the Institute, and he suspected he always would. He really doubted he was the only one, either.

"Good," she said firmly. "I would miss you."

* * *

Sharley was incredibly displeased to find Sauron had left her sword on the battlefield. True, what he couldn't actually pick it up, but _still_. Going back for it cost precious time, especially since he'd hauled her quite a ways away.

She said little on their trek, and he seemed content to let her stay silent – but then, he had the Stranger in his head, and who the hell knew _what_ they were talking about. Not her, and she didn't want to. She had way too much else on her mind.

Time felt _wrong_ now – it was actually physically uncomfortable, like insects crawling across her skin, and she could think of only one reason why: somebody else was fucking with it.

Somebody like her. And that shouldn't be _possible._

Sharley never thought she'd be glad Sauron had made that damn Ring, but she was now. As it stood, he was as immune to everything as she was, and while he was the last person she'd have picked for an ally, he'd be damn useful now. Yes, he was pure fucking evil, but it was in his best interest to help her. He'd be a massive problem later, but that was later.

He followed her through the frosty night, surprisingly quietly for a seven-foot-tall dude in full armor. The moon was waning, but it still washed the trees and grasses silver, gilding each individual blade. A faint breeze stirred both, downright frigid; a living person would have been uncomfortable, but Sharley liked it, because it took away a little of the _wrong_. She wondered if whoever was doing actually knew they _were_ doing it. If they really were like her, ignorance could be far more dangerous than knowledge.

But ignorant or experienced, she was immune to Time and all its vagaries, and Sauron…oh, shit.

Sharley halted in her tracks. "Oh, _motherfucker_ ," she sighed.

So long as the Ring was around, Sauron was immortal. Even the sword demonstrably couldn't do shit to him. But Time…he was _probably_ immune to that, too, seeing as he was basically a god, but she'd better make sure.

She turned, and found he had stopped as well. Goddamn, was he creepy – he couldn't do anything to her, either, and he still unnerved her. She tapped her temple, indicating he should join her.

 _The Stranger came with him, and she'd swear it was curious. She'd brought them both to her favorite overlook in the eternally dying forest, and she sat heavily on a granite boulder._

 _"_ _I need to test something," she said. "I don't_ think _it'll work, but we'd better make sure before it could become a problem."_

 _"_ _What?" he asked, arching an eyebrow in a manner disturbingly reminiscent of her father._

 _"_ _You can't die," she said. "I think we've established that. I'm pretty sure nobody can fuck with your Time, either, but I'm not completely certain."_

 _"_ _What does that mean?" he asked, looking worryingly intrigued._

 _Sharley pinched the bridge of her nose. "Whatever's out there is something like me," she said. "_ Theoretically _, while I can't kill you, I could unwind your Time down to nothing. The Ring ought to prevent that, but if not, I'd rather not find out the hard way."_

 _"_ _And how do you intend to test it?" Dammit, he looked more intrigued than ever. Whether this succeeded or failed, it was not going to end well._

 _"_ _I'm going to try to unwind some of your Time myself. If it works, I have to figure out how to put a lock on it so that other asshole can't do the same thing."_ How _she was to do that, she didn't yet know, but it was a long way to Angmar. She'd think of something._

"Sharley, that might just be the dumbest idea you've ever come up with," _Kurt said._

 _"_ _If you've got a better idea, I'd like to hear it," she said peevishly._

"Well, no. But it's still stupid."

 _"_ _What, exactly, will that do?" Sauron asked, ignoring Kurt._

 _"_ _De-age you a bit, basically," she said. "Obviously it won't show physically with you, but I'll be able to read it in your Time if it works. If it doesn't, we're golden. If it does…I've got a few things to figure out." So long as the Ring was around, he wouldn't get wiped out entirely, but there was a chance – albeit a slim one – that he could be rendered useless, at least temporarily._

 _"_ _How am I to know_ you _will not try to destroy me in such a way?" he asked, eyes narrowing._

 _Sharley sighed. "Because, and I can't believe I'm saying this, I need your help. I don't know what being around someone else like me will do to me – or to them. You're not…fractured, like I am. You're an evil son of a bitch and I kinda wish I could cut your head off, but you're sane, and a little more powerful than I'm comfortable with. If I do something stupid, you can't kill me, but you can probably stop me."_

 _"_ _And what if I do not want to?" he asked. "What if I wish to see all that you can truly do?"_

 _She glowered at him. "Then you're a goddamn dumbass, and deserve whatever happens to you. If I lose my shit, you've gotta step in and stop me."_

 _"_ _Sharley is right," the Stranger said unexpectedly. I have seen once, as you put it, all that it is that she can do, and I never wish to again. You would not, either."_

 _Sauron very obviously didn't believe it, but whatever. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that._

 _"_ Anyway _," Sharley said. "Let's do this, and hope it fails."_

* * *

Sharley, you are going to regret this. At least Sauron is, too.

Title means "Progress" in Irish. As always, your reviews give me life.


	14. Cac

In which Lorna gets to do some queen stuff (with profanity, and without knowing that's actually what she's doing), Sharley fucks up (big time), and Thranduil wonders just what the hell they're going to do about Von Ratched (and has no answers).

* * *

Sharley was well used to not knowing what the fuck she was doing – it was why she so rarely actually _did_ anything. This, however, could not sensibly be avoided. Sure, she _probably_ couldn't do a damn thing to Sauron, but probability was not certainty.

She'd wound Time down on a lot of stuff before, mainly for practice, but never on an actual person. At least, no matter what she did, she couldn't actually kill him – the trouble was that she didn't know what it _would_ do. Assuming it actually worked, would his mind regress, too? Would she have to go through all that mental exploration all over again? Because that would seriously suck.

 _It'll probably fail_ , she told herself. This was just to make sure of that. She didn't quite know where Sauron fell on the divinity scale, but he was probably more or less her level when it came to base strength. He just had over twenty thousand years more experience than her, and way, _way_ more control. While he couldn't kill her, she had no doubt at all that he'd beat her in a fight. The only way she'd be able to stop him would be wrecking Time all around them, and that was a thing she'd have no idea how to contain. If she did it wrong – and she was sure she would – she'd break…well, Arda. And she couldn't think of a damn thing worth _that_.

And that, really, was her problem. She technically had access to power far beyond her, but all she could do with it was destroy. She really wasn't kidding when she said she was a useless deity, but it wasn't like there was anyone who could teach her. Oh, she'd managed Angmar, but that could all too easily have gone catastrophically wrong. Not that she was going to _tell_ anyone. They were too scared of her already.

Weirdly, that was the refreshing thing about Sauron: he wasn't afraid of her. He didn't _need_ to be. He was the one person she wished _would_ fear her, but that was just her luck.

Granted, if she fucked up enough, maybe he'd start being scared. He did, after all, want a world to rule. What he ought to fear was not her, but her incompetence. God knew it scared _her_.

Well. There was nothing for it. They might as well get this over with.

* * *

Lorna, like Thranduil, approached their somber task with the aid of a great deal of wine. For now they planned with precious few, taking up far too little space at the long oak table in his private meeting-room.

She was only vaguely familiar with the two lords and lady who had joined them – all the friends she'd made were, as a snob might put it, from her own class of people, and these three were definitely not it. Golden-haired Lady Silwen she had met in passing, but Lord Morphindien and Lord Vehiron were totally unknown to her. Morphindien was visibly devastated; his son had been among the casualties, and Lorna thought it frankly cruel that he had to be here now. She silently pushed a very large glass of wine across the table to him, since God knew it was helping her; she felt both warm and slightly distant.

"What are your people's funeral traditions?" Silwen asked, curiosity in her grave blue eyes.

"In Ireland? A bit like what I've seen'v yours, really. There's the funeral, and then there's the wake – the funeral honors the dead, and the wake celebrates their life. There's more singing, and stories, and a lot'v drinking. The wake's for the living, really – so that the family's not alone in their grief."

"Would you be willing to add to our laments? To sing one of your land's dirges?"

Lorna considered that. "In Ireland, that's not quite how it works," she said. "Or at least, not anymore. I've known a lot'v people that've died, but the only one who got a proper funeral was my first husband. I'd just got out of hospital – what we call healing wards on Earth – and I was on so much pain medication that I don't rightly remember it. I'm sure I can think'v something, though."

Silwen winced, even as Thranduil took Lorna's hand. "Goheno nin, Lorna. I should not have asked."

"It's all right. When you're mortal, you get used to losing people. You haven't really got a choice." A thought occurred to her. "On Earth, we've got what're called grief counselors. They help people through what're known as the five stages – denial, bargaining, depression, anger, and acceptance, though I've no idea if I've got those in the right order. Might be I can teach some'v those who've not lost anyone to help those who have." She looked at Morphindien. "One'v the first things they say is not to hold it in."

"What does that mean?" he asked dully. He still hadn't touched his wine.

"Means cry. Scream at the unfairness of the universe. Smash things, if you've got to, and know that someday you'll see them again. At least you people know where you go when you die. Those you lost'll be waiting for you."

All three of them looked appalled. "You did this?" Silwen asked.

"Most'v us do. The thing is, even though we know we'll die one day, we're still devastated and furious when we lose those we love. Death's never fair, whether you're mortal or not."

Thranduil squeezed her hand. "We have already had the burial," he said. "With the number of our…guests…we cannot have a proper feast. But we will make our laments, and tell our stories, while we still have a chance."

"Lord Morphindien," Lorna said, as gently as she could, "drink that. Don't just bottle your grief up. You had your kid so much longer than I had mine – let it out, while you've got a chance. Trust me, you'll feel better later, hard as it is to believe."

He blinked at her, a little of the dullness leaving his dark eyes. "I did not know you had a child," he said.

"I…almost did," she sighed. "Losing him or her's a big part'v why I was in hospital – the healing wards – for so long on Earth. I mourned like a bastard – it's got to be worse for you, so don't sit on it. If you can't handle this, I don't care if it's your job – you send somebody else to do it. Nobody'll blame you for it, and if they do, I'll jam my boot so far up their arse they'll taste leather for a week."

Lord Vehiron actually choked a little, and she hoped it was with laughter, not horror. Not that she cared if it _was_ horror.

"Lorna's wording is not what I would have chosen, but her sentiment is," Thranduil said, just a touch dryly. "Morphindien, I suspect your wife needs you more than I do. Go to her. I can find others to aid me, who have not suffered your loss."

"Thank you, my lord," Morphindien breathed, and, to Lorna's relief, did down much of his glass of wine. She was certain that no decent grief counselor would advocate drinking one's pain away, but in the first stages, she'd sure as hell found it helpful. It had been that or lose her mind.

Morphindien left, shoulders hunched, and she sighed. There were hundreds of others like him, grieving children or parents or siblings. It must be a lot harder on Elves, since death was almost unnatural to them – if not for violence, they literally lived forever. She wasn't sure just how well grief counseling would work for any of them, but it was worth a shot.

"All right," she said. "So we've got food and singing, which honestly, are pretty universal across every culture. How long does official mourning go on? Is there anything people are meant to wear?"

"There is no official period of mourning," Thranduil said. "As to clothing, I did not realize your people did anything of that sort."

"Well, we don't really anymore, but back in the day, when people died a lot easier, there were all sorts'v customs for it, depending on where you lived. In some places, there still is. It just depends on the culture." Her knowledge of cultures outside of Ireland was pretty hazy – she'd blame _that_ on leaving school at fourteen, and not being the greatest at attendance even before that – but she knew that everyone grieved in different ways. "I never really understood it myself, since it's just a big, fat reminder of all you've lost."

"I do not think it will be a custom we will import. We have too much to do, and possibly too little time to do it in."

* * *

Sharley spent three hours assessing Sauron's Time-lines before she even dared touch one.

The trouble was that, being so old, he had one of the most complicated webs of them she'd ever seen. Even catching hold of a single one took every ounce of concentration she had, and when she'd managed it, she was damn glad she couldn't feel pain, because holy shit did it _burn_.

Unspooling something's Time was theoretically quite simple, but again, he had so very much of it that she often lost track of where this thread went. His web wasn't so much a web as a cat's-cradle, and it was exasperating as fuck.

She looked at the line, twined as it was through her fingers. It was no wonder it burned – it was magma-bright, the light flaring and ebbing with its own pulse. There was nothing for it but to pull, and hope she could stop before the whole knot came apart.

 _"Can I just reiterate what a terrible fucking idea this is?"_ Kurt asked.

"Your opinion has been noted and ignored," Sharley muttered. "Stranger, let him know we're doing this." Lingering human instinct led her to draw a deep breath, and she pulled, very gently.

Oh, _fuck_.

Never in her life had she seen Time unwind this fast. The thread floated into the air all around her, a glittering line of red light, but it was joined by another, golden as the sun, snapped free of the main mass. It was joined by a third, charcoal-grey, and a fourth that flared blue-black. What the fuck? Time didn't _do_ this, not unless she forced it to, and she'd done no such thing now.

 _"Pack it in,"_ Sinsemilla warned.

"I'm _trying_." Panic bloomed in her chest like a malignant flower as she snatched at the broken threads, trying to reconnect them, but no sooner did she manage it than two more took their place. She tried desperately to cauterize the temporal wound, to halt her unwinding, but it wasn't fucking _working_ , and _why the fuck was it not working?_

She sank her fingers into the main mass, slamming the whole thing to a halt. Mercifully, _that_ worked; all the threads froze, suspended in the air. Sharley stared at them, and at Sauron, caught wholly out of Time. What the hell had she just _done_?

There would be no finding out until she'd reconnected all the threads, and tried to shove them back where they belonged. There was no way she could have harmed him physically, but for all she knew, she might well have just scrambled his brain. It was doubtful, seeing as he was some kind of god, but you never knew. She certainly didn't.

If she had, at least it happened here, in the middle of nowhere. If that other thing did it, and he lost his shit in the middle of a battle, that would be…bad. Very bad. _Beyond_ bad.

 _"Sharley, did you just break the fucking Dark Lord?"_ Jimmy demanded.

"I sure as hell hope not." This would be a lot easier if her hands weren't shaking so much. "He'll be useless if I did." All his Time was still there, so hopefully so were his memories. They might not be in the right _order_ , but at least they were somewhere in his head.

Probably. She really, really hoped so, anyway.

She released the lines, and heaved an instinctive (if useless) sigh of relief when they stayed put – no more broke loose to flail in the air. "Okay, Stranger," she said, "what the fuck did I just do?"

The helmet turned toward her as the Stranger returned to her mind. _"You have made a very large mistake,"_ it said, expressionless as ever. _"He wants to know who you are, and who_ I _am."_

Well, shit. "How far back did I take him?"

 _"He wishes to know why he does not have his Ring, and how it is he has lost Celebrimbor."_

Celebrimbor…Sharley snatched through Middle-Earth's Time, hunting for the name. When she found it, she groaned.

"Did I seriously just send this fucker's mind back to the fucking First Age?"

 _"Not just his mind, you foolish child. If you can get that helmet off his head, I think you will find he has regained his shapeshifting abilities."_

She didn't wind up needing to. He took the thing off himself, and yep, there was the Sauron from her mind – so very, very, disturbingly close to human.

"Oh, god-fucking- _dammit_ ," she sighed.

She'd just gone and made this a billion times worse. If he could shapeshift again, he could fool damn near anybody. Not _her_ , who would always see his Time for what it was, but most people. "Screw this," she muttered, and stabbed him. If he didn't know who she was anymore, he'd best re-learn what she could do, at least. Now she was going to have to baby-sit the son of a bitch until she could figure out how to undo what she'd just done.

The look he gave her was so offended that she would have laughed, if her mood hadn't already been so shitty. "Stranger, go give him the Cliff Notes version, and let him know that if he tries to wander off and be… _him_ …he'll regret it." She stabbed him again, just for good measure.

Fuck her life.

* * *

Lorna might not realize she'd just been put through a test, but she had, and she'd passed. She'd been very, well, _her_ , but her first act as unofficial queen had been compassion. _Profane_ compassion, but compassion nonetheless. Thranduil was pleased.

Legolas, he found, was not. In fact, his son looked ready to tear his own hair out, despite the half-empty wine jug on his desk. Tauriel looked as though she wanted to tear his hair out, too; she sat on the floor, surrounded by stacks of parchment.

"Ionneg, we really must get you your own study," Thranduil said. "Tauriel, you obviously need more wine. Where are Galion and Marty?"

"Relocating people, along with Elladan," Legolas said. "Galion is more personable than Tauriel, and Marty can be terrifying when she chooses. The combination is more effective that anything I could do on my own."

"I am feeling far less than _personable_ right now," Tauriel growled. "I do not understand the hierarchy of Imladris, and if it was not my job, I would not care. This is why such tasks usually fall to _nobility_ ," she added, with a very pointed look at Legolas, who actually flinched.

It was all Thranduil could do not to laugh. "The hierarchy of Imladris must become accustomed to change," he said. "Put them where there is room, and if they protest, simply tell them I told you to."

" _Thank you_ , my lord," she breathed, her shoulders sagging with relief. "It will certainly make dealing with the refugees from Lothlórien easier."

Legolas shuddered. "Do not remind me. I am surprised they did not arrive first, being so much closer. I hope that doesn't mean they ran into some nasty thing we do not yet know about."

"They are not far enough north for it to be Thorvald, at least," Thranduil said. "From all I understand, his creatures can only live within his darkness, and it as yet covers little ground."

The darkness is hardly the only ill to befall us of late," Legolas pointed out. "What if there are more of those Memories?"

"Then we are very likely all going to die."

"No one is allowed to die and undo all my careful work," Tauriel said firmly. "Likely they are not here yet because Lord Elrohir was late in reaching them. Knowing our luck, they will turn up on our doorstep tomorrow." By her tone, she found the idea as welcome as a dose of plague. She was still glowering at the stacks of parchment, as though trying to set them afire by sheer will alone.

"Tauriel, I ought to have appointed you to the Council centuries ago," Thranduil said. "It might not have been more productive, but it would have been infinitely more entertaining."

She shuddered. "I am thankful you did not, my lord. Sooner or later, someone would have left with a broken arm."

Thranduil honestly would not have minded seeing that. "Rest, the pair of you. Come back to this later." He swept back out of the room and continued onward, inspecting his halls and their people. Lorna was getting her back dealt with, which, worryingly, Galasríniel said might take some time; he therefore had to find a way to occupy himself, and seeing to his people and his guests seemed the best way to do that.

He was not, however, pleased to see Von Ratched exploring the path below him, running his hands over one of the pillars. The man had unnaturally long fingers, and seemed just a bit too tactile. In dark Elvish garb, his pale hair long over his collar, he could blend into Middle-Earth far easier than any of the other Edain from his world.

He would not, Thranduil was sure, have put the necessary weapons in his room. They'd be hidden somewhere, and Thranduil really wished they could just torture the information out of him.

Alas, thanks to his telekinesis, that was impossible. For now, they were stuck with him. Thranduil also wished Sharley was there – if anyone could keep him in line with little risk, it was her. Unfortunately, if she was indeed with Sauron, it would likely be a long while before they saw her again. Whatever those two were up to, he doubted either was enjoying it.

* * *

Nice job breaking it, Sharley. Why is Sauron getting back his shapeshifting abilities so very, very bad? It's not just because he can look like whoever he wants – he's got 'giant bat' and 'werewolf' in his repertoire as well, and by implication, a shitload of other things. The only good thing is that he has absolutely no idea what the fuck is going on, and will get a few nasty shocks along the way.

Title means "shit" in Irish. You know the drill: reviews are my sustenance. Feed me, Seymour.


	15. Ag Iarraidh

In which Sauron is a little shit, Sharley hates her life, Lorna and Legolas bond, and Von Ratched meets Galadriel.

* * *

Sharley hadn't thought her life could get any more annoying, but oh, how wrong she was. How very, very wrong.

Sauron of the Third Age was an evil bastard. Sauron of the First Age was a little shit. An evil, devious, aggravating little shit, who was clearly _way_ too used to being able to manipulate people. She'd lost count of how many times she'd stabbed him to make him shut up, which never actually worked. The fact that she couldn't understand a damn word he said wasn't stopping him from trying to con her, according to the Stranger.

From all she'd gathered, both from reading his history and from the Stranger, First Age Sauron had been a massive troll, doing a lot of shit purely because he could. There was usually _some_ kind of purpose behind it, but as far as Sharley could tell, he mostly just liked fucking with people. His world-domination plot was still in its infancy – this Sauron had only just forged the One Ring, and thought he'd been torturing the location of the rest of them out of Celebrimbor before he randomly showed up with her.

Naturally, he'd tried torturing her, too, and of course swiftly realized that that was just an exercise in futility. He'd also tried to steal her sword, and looked both exasperated and offended when it burned the shit out of his hand.

Sharley just rolled her eyes, and did her best to ignore him. So long as he didn't stray out of her sight, she didn't really care what he did, but he was just. So. _Irritating_.

 _"You brought this on yourself,"_ Kurt said, insufferably smug.

"Oh, fuck off. This could be a good thing – he has no idea how powerful the Elves of the Third Age are. When they kick his ass, he won't see it coming. There's thousands of years of shit he doesn't know about."

 _"You keep telling yourself that."_

Sharley ignored him – there was no point at all in maintaining a verbal battle with Kurt. They could go on for _days._

Night was falling fast, but neither she nor Sauron actually needed to rest. At this rate, they'd get there far too soon – too soon, because she still hadn't found a way to lock his Time and keep someone else form unwinding it even more. She didn't know what he'd be like if he regressed further, and had zero desire to find out.

That fucking Ring. Without it, she could have killed him weeks ago, and been spared… _this_. Baby-sitting was bad enough, but baby-sitting someone as powerful as Sauron made her want to rip her own hair out. Or his. She'd thought the helmet was bad, because she couldn't read it at all, but she'd take that over his perennially smug expression. Every so often she'd stab him, just to see if she could wipe it off his face, but no luck so far.

He was being exceptionally obnoxious now – he'd figured out in short order that she ignored him when he spoke, so he'd taken to invading her space, just enough to be awkward. She was still trying to ignore him, but that was becoming ever more difficult, and finally, she'd had far more than enough. She couldn't hurt him, she didn't scare him, but there were few things in this or any other world who didn't find her touch utterly horrifying, and his older self was not one of them.

Sharley had to stand on her tiptoes to grab him by the throat – stupid seven-foot-tall Dark Lords – and felt an immediate, vicious satisfaction when he recoiled, his expression utterly revolted. Well. At least she still had _that_ on her side.

"Stranger, go translate," she snapped. "Listen, you little shit. I get that you're some kinda god, and that you can do way more with it than I can or probably ever will, but if you do not get right the fuck outta my personal space, I will yank your eyes out and _eat them_."

She knew the exact moment the Stranger was through translating, because Sauron laughed. He wasn't laughing _at_ her, though – weirdly, there wasn't anything at all contemptuous or dismissive in it. Surprisingly, he did actually step away, giving her back her personal bubble. She could not figure this dude out _at all_.

"Thank you," she said. "Keep that up."

Seriously, though. Fuck her life.

* * *

Legolas was rather worried. Granted, that was his default state of being of late, but still. He couldn't imagine why Lorna would wish to meet him alone, but he doubted it meant anything good.

She'd kicked everyone else out of his father's study, though the teetering piles of paperwork remained on every available surface. One of them had a full glass of wine atop it, and he took it, warily.

Lorna herself sat in one of the fat armchairs, curled up rather like a cat. She had her own glass of wine, and from the flush in her face, it wasn't her first. She also looked a little nervous, which worried him more.

"So, here's the thing," she said, when he sat in the chair facing her. "Your da wants to crown me queen, and I know you're not going to like that idea any more than I do, because the queen was your mam, and to you she always will be. Deal is, I wouldn't be doing this if your da didn't think it was a good idea, because Christ knows _I_ don't want to, but he thinks it'll be good for everyone to see after we lost so many people.

"Now, before you get all pissed off and think he's trying to replace your mam, he's not. Trust me."

Legolas _was_ angry, and shockingly so. He downed his wine in two large gulps, because it was that or start shouting. "And why," he asked, "is he not the one telling me this?"

"Because I asked him if I could," she said evenly. "In case you hadn't noticed, he's not so great at using his words."

Legolas snorted. _That_ was true enough, and he'd silently resented it for years. "And yet he tells you many things," he said bitterly.

"I don't think he would," she said, sipping her wine, "if I didn't know him so well. You know what he did to me, right, w hen I was first here? What he did to my mind?"

Legolas shifted uncomfortably. Even yet he didn't like to think of it, for he couldn't forget the look in his father's eyes when he'd given the order to hunt Lorna down. "Yes."

"Well, that went both ways. He hasn't got many secrets from me, so there's not much point in keeping silent. I know how much he still loves your mother, so trust me when I say he's not trying to replace her with me. We're two very different people."

Legolas rose, and poured himself another very full cup of wine. "If you know so much, tell me this: why does he never speak of her?"

Lorna was quiet a moment, considering. "It hurts too much," she said at last. "I hope you never need to know what it's like, watching the one you love most in the world die, and not being able to do a damn thing about it."

"How do _you_ know that?" he asked, trying not to spill his wine when he sat.

"I was married once, before your father," she said, staring into the depths of her cup. "I'll not go into how my husband died, but it was slow, and it was horrible, and all I could do was watch."

Legolas winced. He knew how easily Edain died, and how many of them lost their spouse young. "How is it you can love my father, when you already loved another? Have you not replaced him?"

She looked up at him, her green eyes a little too bright in the firelight. "That's not how it works," she said. "Liam's gone, but I don't love him any less, and I don't love your da any less for having been married before. It's different love, but it's just as strong. It'd be hard for you to understand, being immortal, but it happens all the time. Liam was nothing like your da, just like I'm nothing like your mam.

"Your da and I, we started out an accident. Neither'v us was looking to love someone else – I hadn't thought I could, and I doubt he did, either." She took a long swig of wine, and sighed. "The real Queen is always going to be your mam, Legolas, no matter what your da puts on my head."

"Doesn't that _bother_ you?" he asked, mystified as to how it couldn't.

Lorna snorted. "Hell no. I don't want this job – God knows there's nothing queenly about me. I only said yes because your da's a persuasive bastard when he wants to be. Your mam, she was what a queen ought to be. I just inherited the title because your da and I got drunk and screwed like rabbits."

Legolas choked on his wine, and very nearly snorted it out his nose. He did _not_ need that mental image, but he was stuck with it now. "I really didn't need to be reminded of that," he said, coughing, and paused. "If you have my father's memories, could you – could you tell me about my mother?"

Lorna sighed. "I promised your da I wouldn't yet, so don't tell him that I did. What do you want to know first?"

"What was she like?" he asked, surprised at how small his voice was.

"Warm," Lorna said, settling back in her chair, "and kind. She loved everything. When you were born, she'd walk the gardens with you for hours, and sing nonsense songs. You got your name because you were always grabbing at the spring leaves. You meant the world to her.

"The people loved her, too, because she took an interest in everyone. She knew the names'v everybody that lived in the halls, even the kids who washed the dishes in the kitchen. She didn't just hang about with the nobility – she'd train the guards and shoo the cooks away so she could bake things. She didn't seem to pay any attention to class differences – she'd chat with anyone who crossed her path, lord or servant, like they were all the same.

"Your da thought it was mental, but he never said anything, because it made her happy, and he'd've dragged down the moon to make her happy. Your da, he was different then, too, and I wish you could remember him like that, but you need to know this, Legolas, because I doubt he'll ever tell you: even at his coldest, even when it seemed like he didn't give a damn about anyone or anything, he's always loved you so much it hurts."

She paused, and sighed. "And here's another thing: even though Sharley's stopped my aging for now, someday I'm going to die, and you _can't_ let your da go like he did when he lost your mama. Whenever I do go, I swear to Christ I'll kick Mandos into letting me have visitation rights, because I'll not be parted from him forever. I don't care who I have to punch, or how hard."

Somehow, Legolas had never really thought that yes, Lorna _was_ going to die someday. He had no idea what she meant by stopping his aging, but it obviously wasn't actual immortality. "That will destroy him," he whispered.

"It's happened to him once already, and he got better," she said. "He'll need you more than ever – him and the twins, if they choose to be Elves. I still wish I knew how that worked."

Oh Eru, that was right – he technically had _siblings_. "I'll try," he said. "I don't know how well I'll succeed."

"All anyone can do is try," she said, draining her glass.

"I resented you, at first," he admitted, needing to say it.

"Of course you did," she said, hopping up to refill her glass. "Your da got married again right out'v the fucking blue. _Anyone_ would resent that. Christ knows _I_ did, and I was the one he married."

"Did he really not tell you that you would be married, after… _that_?" He really couldn't imagine his father missing such an oversight, unless he was beyond intoxicated.

"Nope. And it didn't help that he told me while I had a headache the size'v his elk. Then again, if I hadn't felt so sick, I might've strangled him with his own hair. Which would've been really awkward, and stuck you with his job permanently."

Legolas shuddered. "I am thankful you did not. Do you – do you truly love him now, even after…everything?" He didn't just mean their ill-advised night; his father had, after all, terribly violated her mind.

"I do," she said, clambering back up onto her chair. "I'm not sure how it happened, or even exactly _what_ it happened, but – well, it's like part'v me was missing, and I didn't know it until I found him. And it's – part'v why it's different with your da than it was with Liam is because, with Liam, I didn't have as much in me to give. I hadn't known enough pain. If hurting does nothing else, it reminds you that you're alive, and sooner or later you want to make it so other people don't hurt more than they have to. It's why I've agreed to let your da make me a goddamn crown – at least it'll make a few people smile. Even if I do have to wear a _dress_ ," she added, scowling.

Legolas looked at her – _really_ looked, for the first time, looked at her sun-weathered skin and unearthly eyes, the wild mass of her black, silver-threaded hair, and the vicious scar on her face. She was nothing at all like an Elf, but she wasn't quite like an Edain, either. For the first time, he thought he could see what his father saw in her.

"My mother might be the queen," he said, "but she is not the only one."

To his surprise, Lorna's face reddened. "Oh, shut it," she muttered into her glass. "If you tell anyone I blushed, I'll kick you."

* * *

The more Von Ratched explored, the more fascinated he became.

Elves really were irritatingly perfect craftsmen, but at least it gave him plenty to do see. And the healing wards were a treasure trove – especially their surprising collection of semi-modern medical equipment.

The healers didn't let him see much, and he wouldn't push the issue – yet. At least they answered his questions about the oxygen canisters and odd black plasma bags.

Duncan. He really shouldn't be surprised the man was so resourceful – he was surprised that he'd been sane enough to design it at all. Such a pity he was not here.

He ran into trouble, however, when his rambling walks led him to nearly run into Lady Galadriel.

In the books, she had always fascinated him – ancient even for an Elf, and so very powerful. It was her history in _The Silmarillion_ , however, that truly intrigued him; one of the Kinslaying Noldor, even if she had killed no one herself, and a survivor of the long, deadly trek across Helcaraxë. She was almost too beautiful to be real, a creature of porcelain skin and golden hair, nearly as tall as he, with fathomless blue eyes.

She also radiated a level of power that set his teeth on edge.

He'd hoped he'd never need to actually _meet_ her. Reading about her was one thing, but standing in her presence was quite another. He might be able to trick most Elves into underestimating him, but there would be no tricking her. Her too-blue eyes seemed to star into his soul.

"Lady," he said, inclining his head.

"I had wondered when I would meet you, Doctor," she said. "You have been causing no great mischief." It wasn't a question.

"I cannot afford to," he said. "And I have had no great temptation. Not when there is so much to learn." It was true, too; he'd been very far from bored.

She watched him carefully, and he could feel the weight of her mind against his. "I think you might wish to look in my Mirror."

It was tempting – oh, so very tempting. "I think not," he said. "Someone very aggravating once told me that knowing the future would make one attempt to change it, and that doing so rarely ended well. She was quite mad, but if any would know, it was her."

"Sharley?" Galadriel said. "Perhaps she is right, but for you, right now, it would be better to be forewarned. Unlike her, you cannot alter the flow of Time itself."

He certainly _wished_ he could. "If you think it wise, I will," he said. "Though I doubt I will like what I see."

"You will not," she said, "but it may save your life."

Von Ratched blinked. "Why would you _want_ to save my life?" he asked, genuinely surprised. "Everyone else here wishes to kill me."

"Because you will be needed later. Thorvald is not the only evil to blight Middle-Earth, nor will he be the last. You are capable of great evil, Doctor, but in your universe you also did some good, albeit for selfish reasons. While you will not have the same motivation here, you are needed nonetheless."

That…was a rather odd sensation, honestly. No one had ever _needed_ him before. He had been useful to those he chose to work for, but he had to artificially make himself indispensible. "Very well," he said. "I admit, now I am curious."

Her expression didn't change, but he would swear Galadriel's right eyebrow twitched, just a little. "Curiosity is both your virtue and your doom, Doctor. Follow me."

He did, quite certain he was going to regret it, yet nonetheless compelled.

* * *

Sauron had no idea just what it was that walked with him. He was unused to not knowing something, but he was intrigued as well as irked.

She was not a Maia, nor a Vala, though she carried enough power to be the latter. She had no fear of him, could not understand any of the tongues he spoke to her, and her touch was the most horrifying thing he had ever known. She was unnatural, she was _wrong_ , and she was the most interesting thing he had seen since his master was banished.

And part of her currently resided inside his mind. _It_ understood him, though it rarely spoke, and he was (for now) too curious about it to force it out. It wasn't as though it could hurt him.

According to it, this creature – Sharley – went to answer some very great threat, and if he actually wanted a world to conquer, it was in his best interest to aid her. It also told him that if he tried to go off on his own, she would knock him down, sit on him, and stick her hands on his face until he went mad from disgust. The thought was as amusing as it was disgusting.

The thing, the Stranger, would not tell him how she had summoned him, however, and _that_ was…troubling. The world felt much older, too, which was also troubling, and made him wonder if somehow, through some impossible means, she had brought him forward in Time. It was that which intrigued him, which kept him from deserting her – that simply wasn't possible, yet here he was, and here she was, this strange, alien being who smelled like a storm and felt like lightning. His intent had been to work out what she was and then kill her, but he was beginning to doubt the latter was possible, either. Torturing her and trying to break her mind were likewise fruitless endeavors.

He didn't know what to do with her, and that severely annoyed him. People he couldn't either intimidate or manipulate were a novelty, and not one he liked.

* * *

When Lorna went to bed that night, she was drained beyond words, and quite surprised to find Thranduil already there. He very rarely slept two nights in a row – he'd sit with her while she slept, but he was usually also doing something else.

Now, though, he looked as exhausted as she felt, and a closer look made her think she knew why. The lock on his grief wasn't meant to be permanent, and it was breaking now.

She struggled into her nightgown and crawled up onto the bed beside him, pulling him close so he could lay his head on her chest. He said nothing, and neither did she – just stroked his silky hair, and let him be. He would speak when he wanted to, _if_ he wanted to. He might not; like her, he wasn't exactly communicative when he was mourning.

"The funeral is tomorrow," he said dully, after about fifteen minutes.

"I'll be with you," she promised, still stroking his hair. "We'll get through this."

"Lorna, you are never allowed to die," he said, resting his forehead in the crook of her neck and shoulder. "You can never leave me."

She ran her hand down his back, his skin cool and impossibly smooth beneath her fingertips. "Tell you what," she said, "when my time comes, I'll fight Mandos for it. Literally, I will." It was the only promise she could make. She'd KO the god of Death if she absolutely had to.

Thranduil tangled his fingers in her hair, his breath hot on the side of her neck. "If that does not work, Lorna, I will petition to follow you to wherever it is Edain go."

Her eyes widened. "You can _do_ that?" she asked, leaning back to look at him.

"Luthien did," he said. His pale eyes were suspiciously red, and filled with depthless pain. "There is no reason I cannot."

There were a million reasons why he _should_ not, starting with Legolas, but she was hardly going to say so right now. "Hopefully that's a long way off," she said instead. "Let's worry about re-writing the laws of metaphysics later."

* * *

Luthien, quite famously, was granted mortality when she married Beren. Less famous is Elrond's grandfather Tuor, who was the second human to marry an Elf…and who was granted _immortality._ Yeah, Aragorn and Arwen got screwed over, basically. When it comes to human-elf pairings, the Valar are frustratingly inconsistent.

Also, poor Sharley's life is only going to get worse, because I am a terrible person. If it seems like Sauron kind of has a thing for her…he kind of does. Just not in any normal way, because duh, him.

Title means "Trying" in Irish. You know the drill: your reviews are this story's fuel.


	16. Chorónú

This chapter took so long because I actually re-wrote it. Twice.

In which Lorna's coronation happens, God help her.

* * *

Lorna had been hoping to have a little time to recuperate after the funeral, but nope – she had a coronation to prepare for, which meant being poked and prodded by seamstresses, and struggling to learn what seemed to her to be _way_ too many lines.

At least her dress was simple: a green crushed-velvet so dark it was nearly black, with minimal silver embroidery, and without the cumbersome sleeves so many Elven women seemed to favor. The skirt was long enough and wide enough that she could keep her boots, and no one need be any the wiser.

Still, she was glad to escape it all and return to her room, where Thranduil sat at his desk, now finally (mostly) free of clutter.

"I already wish this was over, and it hasn't even started," she complained, flopping onto an armchair. "I'm going to make a total fool'v myself, I just know it."

"You will be fine," he said, setting aside his quill. "Come – I have something to show you."

Lorna groaned, but followed, rubbing at her left shoulder. Her back both ached and itched, neither of which were helping her mood at all.

Thranduil handed her a square, shallow box of mirror-polished mahogany. Bewildered, she opened it, and sucked in a surprised breath.

It held a crown, of a sort – it was more like the circlets he sometimes wore, crafted of silver wire that in some places seemed as fine as thread. They looped and swirled, interconnecting to form a circle, curving into a shallow V at the front where it would rest on her forehead. At the center of the V was a small stone like nothing she'd ever seen before – it might have been pale opal, but it burned like the heart of a star.

"Do you like it?" he asked.

"Like it? It's bloody gorgeous." She'd still feel like a twit wearing it, but it was absolutely lovely. "Where'd you get the stone? I've never seen anything like it."

"My father found it, long before I was born. He prised it out of a fallen star, or so he told me. I thought it fitting – something not of this world for some _one_ not of it."

She looked up at him. "You rehearsed that, didn't you?"

"Perhaps," he said dryly. "Come – traditionally, one is not meant to try on the crown before the coronation, but I know you will only believe you will look foolish in it if you do not see yourself wearing it beforehand."

"You know me too well," she said, following him into the bathroom. "Let's get this over with."

He took the box from her, and carefully removed the circlet. His hands set it on her head very gently – the metal was cool on her forehead, but it was so light that she otherwise wouldn't have been aware she was even wearing it.

Lorna looked in the mirror. Unsurprisingly, she didn't actually look like a queen, but she also didn't look utterly stupid, so that was a plus. It was so delicate it would have been almost totally unobtrusive if not for the stone, but somehow the brilliance of the thing didn't totally overpower her. She could wear this and not feel like an impostor or an idiot. She doubted anybody would be tempted to laugh, anyway.

" _I_ think you look beautiful," he said, gently taking it off her head.

"You're my husband, you're supposed to," she retorted. "I'll do, I guess, which is enough."

She really didn't want to admit that she was nervous. Normally, Lorna had no problem with an audience – she'd been a professional panhandler, for Christ's sake – but in that, there wasn't any pressure. For the Elves, this was a Big Deal, and while she was sure they'd forgive her if she fucked up, she'd still rather not. Not after the depressing nightmare that had been the funeral. "Uh, why did I let you talk me into this?"

"Because you know I am right," he said, guiding her back out to the bedroom. "You are far too tense," he added, with a slightly wicked smile. "I believe your back has healed enough to allow me to do something about that, provided we are careful."

Lorna couldn't help an answering smile. "All right," she said. "Relax me."

* * *

Lorna slept; Thranduil did not. He watched her, and wondered if he was doing the right thing.

Not for his people – they needed it – but for Lorna herself. He knew that she often forgot that he was a king – well, not _forgot_ , but disregarded. The stress of being Queen in name as well as in practice might get to her, sooner or later, because he knew her: consciously or not, she'd feel like she was expected to live up to Anameleth, despite the fact that they were two vastly different people.

She really did look so very dead when they slept – it was only the soft sound of her breathing that indicated she was alive. No, she wasn't Anameleth, with her Eldar-perfect skin and hair like a river of gold, but that did not make her in any way _less_ – the trick would be convincing her of that.

Somehow, he doubted that would be easy.

* * *

When Lorna woke the next morning, she had a few blessed moments of warm comfort. _Very_ few; as soon as her eyes opened, dread curdled sour in her stomach, and she realized how very sore she was.

Damn.

"I think you broke me, Thranduil," she grumbled, as she rolled off the bed and staggered her way into the bathroom. After she kicked on the tap, she looked in the mirror. At least he hadn't left her with any hickeys her dress wouldn't cover.

"I will make it up to you later," he said. "I can start by washing your hair."

"Have we actually got time to let it dry?" she asked, picking at a snarl.

"The coronation is not until this afternoon. So long as you sit beside the fire, we can indeed make certain Cthulu is dry."

She snorted, running a brush through her hair. "I never should've told you that. You'll never let it go."

"No," he said dryly, taking the brush, "I won't." _Thranduil_ at least looked like he was looking forward to this – there was something like happiness in his expression, and his smile was real. His silvery hair was also just as tangled as hers, and she hadn't been quite so careful about the hickeys – she was pretty sure one of them would show a little over his collar.

Oops.

Once her hair had been dealt with, she sank into the hot water with a grateful sigh. They'd _tried_ to be careful, but her back was her back, and it wasn't the only place that was sore. At least it had been worth it.

"I feel like I might be sick," she said, even as he lathered shampoo through her hair. "I've never been nervous like this before, and I can't say that I like it."

Thranduil laughed. "You will be _fine_ , Dilthen Ettelëa. No one is expecting you to be anything but what you are. I know you are nervous, but you must eat something."

 _That_ would be easier said than done. She felt jittery, like she'd had too much caffeine, and oh, she just wanted this to be over with. "I'll try," she said. "Can't promise I'll manage much."

"A little is better than nothing." He tilted her head back to rinse her hair, and she breathed in the calming scent of lavender. At least she'd smell nice.

"I wish I could cover my scar like you do, just this once." She actually really didn't mind the thing, but it didn't exactly go with a crown and a dress.

"No," he said, kissing her forehead. "You are my tiny warrior woman. There is no point in hiding that."

Lorna rolled her eyes. "You, mister," she said, clambering out of the bath, "have a fetish, and a creepy one. Fine. The things I do for you."

"I hope you know that they are appreciated," he said, arching an eyebrow.

"You were definitely appreciative last night," she said, struggling into her robe and wincing. _God_ did her back hurt. "You can go ahead and appreciate it again, later. I won't mind."

"I am certain you won't," he said, more dryly still, following her. "I will see what I can do."

She tried to nibble toast while he brushed her hair by the fireplace. It took her a solid fifteen minutes to eat one piece, and then it was all she could do not to reach for the wine.

The hair-brushing helped, at least. Having her hair played with always had soothed her, and he knew how to brush without pulling or tugging.

"There," he said, running his fingers through it. "Let's get you dressed."

At least _that_ was simple enough – it just laced up the back, no muss, no fuss. The sleeves were a little belled, but since they actually fit right, she wouldn't trail them in her food when they ate; they ended properly at her elbows, rather than halfway down her forearms. Since there wasn't a hell of a lot in the way of ornamentation, she actually managed not to look like a kid playing dress-up in her mam's clothes. With her hair tamed for once, she'd pass muster, which was all she cared about. While she felt a little weird wearing a dress, her reflection didn't look like a total stranger.

Like a smart monkey, she practiced walking in it with her boots on, pacing the bedroom and burning off some of her nervous energy while she was at it. She knew she walked like a man, but as long as she didn't trip, she didn't really care.

Thranduil watched her with obvious amusement, and she wanted to kick him. Sure, he'd gone through this, too, but he'd known all his life that someday he might have to do it. It just got _dropped_ on her. Lorna had never even seen a coronation on Earth; the Queen of England's was thirty years before she was born.

She paused long enough to watch him get dressed, mostly to admire the view. As always, Thranduil's clothing was a lot more complex than hers – not just his trousers and her favorite black-and-silver tunic thing ( _dress_ , dammit), but a heavy, red-rusty velvet robe with an actual train. He didn't have his woodland crown, though; instead he wore one rather like the one she would be given.

"You're pretty," she said, reaching up to adjust his collar. It _mostly_ hid the hickey. Enough of it was visible to make people uncomfortable, which was fine by her.

"So are you," he said, kissing her brow. "We must go."

"Oh, joy," she sighed, the butterflies in her gut resuming their party. She followed him anyway, and took his arm when they reached the hallway. He'd have to leave her once they reached the larger throne room (which she hadn't even known _existed_ until now), but she'd meet up with him again soon enough.

She could hear the din long before they reached the hall, and her heart very nearly failed her. The biggest problem was that it wasn't just _their_ people, but everyone from Imladris, too. People who didn't know her, or what she was like.

 _Do you really care what they think? It's our people that matter._

It was true, and the thought fortified her when Thranduil was forced to abandon her at the door. In a way, this was rather like a marriage ceremony, but the pair of them had never had one, and she and Liam had got married by a judge. She didn't really have prior experience; the only wedding ceremonies she'd ever seen were in movies.

A hush fell over the crowd as Thranduil passed, head high, every inch a king. Lorna, by contrast, was again ready to be sick, and had no idea what to do with her hands. At least a bride got to carry a bouquet.

Whatever. If she focused on him, she wouldn't think about the crowd, so that was exactly what she did. When he reached his throne, she drew a deep breath, and stepped through the door.

She'd never seen any room so bright except for a feast; somehow, the lanterns were like sunlight, far more pleasant than any electric bulb. It smelled like lavender, and she tried to let it calm her even as she also tried to ignore the crowd on either side of her. Thranduil wanted this, and she'd do worse things to make him happy.

Still, it seemed like the walk took hours, and she had to fight not to clench her sweaty hands. The heavy weight of the velvet felt alien, and a little too warm. Much practice let her ascend the steps without tripping over the hem, and then she stood before him. Somehow, having the crowd at her side was worse than having it at her back, but she could do this. She was in too deep to back out now.

Thranduil gave her the tiniest hint of a smile. "Lorna Donovan, I offer you this crown as a sign not only of my love, but my trust. Though you were not born of my people, you have become one in spirit. You have stood by us in suffering, ours and your own. We have given you a home, and you have given us your customs and your language – even if only in select pieces."

Lorna just barely choked back a laugh – _that_ hadn't been in any of their practice runs.

"What I offer you is a very great responsibility. The weight of a crown is at times very heavy, but our duty is to our people. You have already shouldered some of that burden, but there is more to bear. Will you grant our people what I ask of you?"

"I will," she said, thankful her voice didn't crack. Now came the _really_ hard part.

Lorna turned to face the crowd, grateful to have Thranduil at her back. She knew these vows, dammit – she could do this.

"I pledge my life to the service of the Woodland Realm," she said, thankful she could keep her voice even. "I give you my love and my protection, my devotion and my strength. I came here with nothing, and I have gained everything – a home, a family, love I did not ever think I would find. If by my life or death I can serve you, I will. This do I swear. Also," she added, because it was her, "I give you a traditional Irish blessing: D'fhéadfadh do chroí a bheith éadrom, do dhorn trom, agus is féidir leis an srón bhriseadh i gcónaí leis an chéad buille."

Someone – she was betting it was Faelon – choked audibly, and she could _feel_ Thranduil trying not to laugh as he lowered the crown onto her head. "A blessing we can all appreciate, I am sure," he said dryly. "I present Queen Lorna Donovan, Dilthen Ettelëa, the first of her name."

It took every ounce of willpower she had not to elbow him in the gut. She hadn't expected him to add her nickname to her official title, and oh, he would pay for it later.

The sheer volume of the cheer that went up startled the hell out of her, and actually made her jump. At least it meant the people were actually as happy as Thranduil had hoped they'd be.

"You are a dead man," she muttered in English, as they walked side by side down the aisle.

"I could not resist," he said. "I simply could not."

That was it. When he went to sleep tonight, she really _would_ shave his eyebrows.

* * *

That was one of the _stranger_ coronations Elrond had ever witnessed, but it was short and to the point. When the pair passed, Lorna looked ready to murder Thranduil, likely for including her rather unusual epessë in her title. Not that Elrond could blame her; he couldn't imagine anyone actually _wanting_ to be called Little Stranger.

She'd make a strange sort of queen, but her vows were heartfelt, and the people of the Woodland Realm seemed to like her. Still, something about her unnerved him, though he could not begin to guess what.

The feasting was to take place in the great hall, and he and all his people dutifully formed a queue. He didn't know what she'd said in her own tongue, but evidently it had been amusing, for a number of the guards were laughing quietly.

"What was her blessing?" he asked his son.

"I don't know," Elladan said. "It was in Irish. I'm sure I can get someone to translate, sooner or later. Knowing Lorna, it was something profane. Last winter, Elrohir and I got her to curse for a full half hour, and she didn't repeat herself once."

"And now she is Queen of the Woodland Realm," Elrond mused. He knew why she'd been crowned; that really wasn't difficult to guess, not after she'd been so resistant to the idea. The people had something to celebrate now, and it might be the last celebration they would know for a long while to come.

* * *

Thranduil was pleased, and already slightly inebriated.

They couldn't have a proper feast, but there was enough for all, and he could feel the heaviest of the pall of grief lift from his people. No, the celebration wasn't as lively as it would be under other circumstances but there were smiles, and even some laughter.

Lorna was both visibly relieved, and quite a bit more intoxicated than him. He'd known he risked retribution by adding her epessë, but he truly hadn't been able to help it. Her crown suited her, and she didn't look as though she fully realized she was wearing it – it was why he'd had it made so light. Even with it, she didn't look properly like a queen, but she was Lorna – she never would. There would never be anything remotely regal about her; if there was, it would seem horribly unnatural. She was his tiny Edain warrior-queen, built for getting her equally tiny hands dirty.

And she was going to have to – probably sooner than they'd like. Thorvald was a threat best dealt with before he had a chance to creep too far into the world. Sharley likely had Sauron, if not under control, at least sufficiently distracted, but she could not handle both at once, and Sauron would grow too frustrated to deal with her sooner or later. As soon as Thranduil, Lorna, and Von Ratched had recovered from their trip, they were going to have to see if Galadriel's Mirror could tell them enough about Thorvald to allow them to face him and actually survive.

But he wouldn't think of that now. His people were pleased, and if his wife wasn't quite, well – he _had_ promised to make it up to her later. He would just have to be certain he did it exceptionally well. (To his everlasting – if silent – amusement, he had overheard several of Elrond's people wonder aloud just how the pair of them 'worked', given their height disparity. He'd been oh-so-tempted to say 'creatively'.)

* * *

Poor Lorna. At least she didn't screw up, and it's over with. Her 'blessing' translates as "May your heart be light, your fists heavy, and may the nose always break with the first blow."

Title, fittingly, means "Coronation" in Irish. As always, your reviews give me life.

Naturally, sooner or later there will be an offering in _Ettelëa Interludes._


	17. Máirseáil

In which everybody scoots to answer the threat, Sharley gets a nasty shock (though not as nasty a one as she'll get later), there are more showtune-singing Elves, and Von Ratched is…Von Ratched.

* * *

Sauron was troubled.

Sharley was alien, and strange, and powerful, but she seemed benign enough. The other thing he sensed, the being somewhat like her, was not.

It was competition. And he did not like competition.

The longer they walked, the closer they grew, the more it set his teeth on edge. The Stranger insisted it had told him all that it and Sharley knew, and he believed it; he didn't think it had the capacity for deception. But what they knew was sadly little.

He glanced at Sharley, who had said very little since she threatened to eat his eyes. Such a strange figure she was, tall and scarred, alive and yet not. She'd make an invaluable ally, but he knew that as soon as this threat was dealt with, she would turn on him. She could not kill him, but what she _could_ do was potentially worse.

He had to find a way around that. And he didn't think there was one. For there seemed to be nothing this woman-creature actually _wanted_.

For much of his existence, Sauron had preyed upon other people's greed – for knowledge, for power, for immortality. He didn't know what to do with someone who wanted _nothing_. Sharley had more than enough power, she was already immortal, in some odd way, and whatever she wished to know, she could read through the lines of Time.

For the first time, he was stymied. And he _hated_ it.

There had to be something – and he had to find it before they reached their destination.

* * *

Ratiri couldn't help a vague feeling that something, somewhere, had gone badly wrong.

It certainly wasn't _here_ ; all their evacuation measures were in place. They'd even run several drills, which went more or less smoothly. The smart thing to do would be to just move into the mountain now, but few were willing to do that. They didn't want to give up their homes – and open sky – before they absolutely had to.

He didn't want to worry the other humans – he spoke only to Arandur and Katje, over a dinner of venison and the Dwarves' incredibly potent ale in her apartment.

"I had hoped I was only one," she sighed. Somehow, cold and cloudy though the weather was, she'd acquired a truly fantastic sunburn, already beginning to peel. Apparently Elves didn't tan or burn, because Arandur was both fascinated and horrified, and had apparently spent much of the day trying to convince her to let him peel some of it off. "I do not understand it. We are not like Geezer."

"Thank God for that," Ratiri muttered. "I don't know, but I can't discount it. I just wish we had some way of figuring out what it was. I miss the internet," he grumbled. "Earth might be inferior to Middle-Earth in some ways, but at least we had wifi."

"Well, it is either Thorvald, Von Ratched, or Sauron," Katje said, before Arandur could ask. "You know, why is it always _men_? Arandur, have your world ever have evil _woman_?"

"Ungoliant," the Elf said. "She was a giant spider. And Thuringwethil, but she was a sort of bat that drank blood."

Katje's eyebrows rose. "You have vampires here?"

"What is a vampire?"

"A creature that drinks blood," Ratiri said, draining his beer. He'd hoped the buzz of the alcohol would dampen his worry, but no such luck. "That's _it_?"

Arandur shrugged. "To be fair, we have known few who were truly evil. Ungoliant was ally to Morgoth, who was master to Sauron. Of Thuringwethil little is known. Thorvald and Von Ratched you have imported from your world."

Katje winced. "Sorry about that."

"Well, it is not as though you purposefully did it. You did not even summon yourselves."

"I still wish I knew what _did_ , and why," Ratiri muttered. "I think I'll ask Dain if he'll be willing to send a raven to the halls. Maybe they'll know more than we do."

"I doubt they know less," Katje said.

* * *

Aragorn had had far too much to drink last night.

The wine of the Woodland Realm was rather more potent than that of Imladris, and he woke with a thumping headache. It drove him, squinting, to the healing wards, in search of a headache powder.

To his amusement, he was far from the only one – there was actually a queue. In it were Legolas, Elladan, Tauriel, and _Lord Elrond_ , who was also looking rather green in the face. Aragorn wouldn't have thought his foster-father capable of over-indulging, but clearly he had. Elladan, wan though he was, looked terribly amused by it, too.

So what were they to do _now_? They had reached safety, but Aragorn was not one for sitting still. Surely a hunt would be mustered soon, and when it went, so would he. He wanted a better look at the damage the newly-minted Queen had wrought upon the forest.

Speaking of whom, the woman herself emerged from one of the private rooms, rubbing her shoulder – doubtless her wounds still pained her. Disturbingly, there were a number of purple marks on her neck that could only have one source, and he was ashamed to find himself wondering how that _worked_ , given that her head barely reached halfway up King Thranduil's chest.

He twitched, shoving _that_ thought away, feeling vaguely ill.

Elladan made it through the line first, and waited until Aragorn was through. Fortunately, Elven remedies were more or less instantaneous, so by the time they were out the door, he felt much better.

"I wonder if all of the Wood-Elves' celebrities are so…excessive," he said, squeezing out pas the queue.

"The last one I saw was even worse," Elladan laughed. "At least nothing got set on fire this time."

Aragorn stared at him, but there was no jest in his foster-brother's eyes. "This explains quite a bit about Legolas."

"The Wood-Elves' have long thought us – _stuffy_ , I believe is the word," Elladan said, dodging yet more people. "When compared to them, perhaps they are right."

He has no chance to say anything more – a sudden, uneasy murmur passed through the crowd, and Legolas, still pale, appeared before them as if by magic.

"The sentries say that your brother and grandfather are here, with those from Lothlórien," he told Elladan, "and they are not alone."

"I take it their company is not friendly?" Elladan asked, sobering immediately.

"No," Legolas said. "Not at all. They must be yet another thing from some other world. I must find my father and your grandmother." He was off before either could say anything more.

Elladan and Aragorn shared a glance, and immediately went to get their weapons.

* * *

Thranduil was not remotely pleased.

Yesterday and last night had been both pleasant and amusing, and he had hoped to do nothing strenuous today, but evidently the universe hated.

He winced as he shrugged into one of his heavier tunics, the fabric rubbing over the scratch-marks on his back. It didn't sound as though there were time for him to put on full armor, so he merely buckled his sword-belt on.

"What pursues them?" he asked, Legolas, as they strode out into the hallway.

"I do not know," his son said. " _They_ do not know. If it is the dead, they are nothing like those we have here. All I am certain of is that they have inflicted terrible casualties on the people of Lothlórien."

"Can they be destroyed?" Their own dead, Thranduil knew, thus far fell only to Sauron.

"Yes, but with difficulty. The sentry told me that Elrohir said they seem to feel no pain, and do not stop until they've been put down."

This was not what his army needed, not so soon after such heavy losses. At least this time they would have the aid of Elrond's people.

When they reached a larger corridor, Von Ratched appeared at his side with unnerving silence. Garbed in black, his mirror-eyes were more unsettling than ever. "I might have some idea of what this is," he said, without preamble. " _Might_. Your sentry says that the creatures look like Edain, with eyes of solid black."

"And?" Thranduil asked.

"And at some point in the alternate timeline, a plague would have afflicted my kind with the same symptom. If I am right, what we will face are not dead, but nor are they human any longer. And it makes me wonder very much what is happening on Earth, for if I truly _am_ right, these people cannot be of your world."

"You have dreamt of this, I assume," Thranduil said, and it wasn't a question.

"I have. If these creatures are indeed what I think them to be, they are beyond both pain and reason. Do not hesitate to kill them."

"Why would we?" Legolas asked.

Von Ratched looked at him. "Have you ever killed an Edain?" he asked. "Have you ever killed anything save orcs and spiders?"

"No," Legolas admitted.

"It will be more difficult than you think. I have no trouble with it, but I, as I have been reminded of multiple times over my life, am a sociopath.."

Thranduil snorted before he could help it. _That_ was true enough.

"What is a sociopath?" Legolas asked.

"Someone entirely lacking a conscience," Thranduil replied, and hoped Von Ratched was not right. He'd never killed an Edain, either. It wasn't quite Kinslaying, but the Edain were also Children of Ilúvatar, so in a sense it was.

But if Von Ratched spoke truth, these were no longer Edain – merely Edain-shaped creatures. He would simply have to keep reminding himself of that.

When they reached the main halls, Lorna joined him, shoving her way through the crowd. She looked no more pleased than he felt.

"Well, this is bloody _brilliant_ ," she growled. "Have I got to kill actual people this time? Because I don't know that I can."

"They are not people," Von Ratched said. "Not anymore. If you hesitate, they will kill _you_."

"Wonderful. And here was me hoping I could _enjoy_ being home."

"You enjoyed yourself last night," Thranduil said dryly.

Lorna kicked him. "Not what I meant. I am getting plastered as hell when we get back."

"Not right away, you are not. You have duties now, remember?"

She groaned. "Remind me again why I let you talk me into this?"

"Because you love me?" he offered.

"You're bloody lucky I do," she grumbled. "And you're lucky I fell asleep first, or you'd have no eyebrows."

"One of these days you will make good on that threat, won't you?"

"You bet your arse I will."

"Are they _always_ like this?" Von Ratched complained. "I had thought it a fluke of the road."

"More or less," Legolas sighed. "They're behaving remarkably well, for them."

"I could get everyone going with more _Les Miserables_ , if you like," Lorna said. "It might confuse whatever we're about to meet."

Thranduil groaned.

* * *

Sharley ran, and hoped like hell Sauron was behind her. If not, she couldn't stop to hunt for him.

Something was very, very wrong.

Something alien had showed up – something very big. And it was also something _familiar_. She'd felt this temporal disturbance once already, in Angmar, when there still was an Angmar. Whatever had opened that Door must have found a way to do it again, though it couldn't possibly be in the same place.

She was booking it toward Mirkwood as fast as she couldn't – she wasn't far now at all, and the feeling of whatever awaited danced like lightning over her skin. Most people probably wouldn't have liked it, but Sharley was so starved for actual _sensation_ that she loved it.

Sauron, it seemed, was indeed still there, for he came up beside her. How he could move so quietly in all that fucking armor, she didn't know, but it was creepy.

"I don't know what's ahead of us," she said, trusting the Stranger to translate, "but I doubt either one of us will like it. Don't do anything stupid." _Please don't let it be something he could ally with_ – but she doubted it was. If these things were the same as those from Angmar, they'd only answer to the one who created them.

No, what really worried her were any potential friendlies – this close to Mirkwood, the Elves would want to see what the hell was going on, and she couldn't let them meet up with Sauron. She wasn't going to get anybody killed who didn't actually _deserve_ it.

Morning though it was, the sky to the north of Mirkwood was dark, boiling with stormclouds. If there wasn't a Door within it, she'd be very surprised. She and Sauron were going to go around it, and attack from behind – they had less chance of bumping into any Elves that way.

But if they did…well, hopefully they wouldn't. If Sauron was determined to be an idiot, she'd have a hell of a time trying to stop him.

"I have been called many things, but never stupid."

Sharley skidded to a halt. "Since when the fuck d'you speak English?"

His expression was so amused she could have kicked him. "Your Stranger has taught me."

"How nice of it not to tell _me_ that," she grumbled. "How fluent are you actually?"

"Not as fluent as I would like, but well enough to get by."

Oh, of course. She spent weeks picking up very poor Westron from Bilbo, and in the same amount of time, Sauron was speaking English like a pro. Goddamn…well, _gods_.

"Tell me, Lady Sharley, are you _always_ this irate?" he asked, sounding more amused than ever.

"Okay, one, if you call me 'Lady' again, I'll shank you, and two, no, actually. You're a little more stressful than the company I'm used to." If he went right back to never shutting up, she'd try to chop his head off, just to see what would happen.

Miraculously, he said nothing – only smirked. Sharley rolled her eyes and started on again, hoping this wasn't somehow going to get worse. Knowing her luck lately, her hope was probably a vain one.

* * *

Legolas didn't want to admit that he still had a bit of what Lorna would call a morning-after, but from the look of it, he wasn't alone. That was only going to make this even less fun, and rather more difficult.

Most of the soldiers and guards were already massed outside, and all of them were staring at the northern sky. Though the sun shone overhead, a massive storm was brewing to the north, and an inexplicably hot wind sighed through the trees. It smelled weirdly metallic, like hot copper, and desert-dry.

"Well, that's encouraging," Lorna muttered.

"Indeed," his father said dryly. "We march toward Dale." It was the only reliable way to reach the northern border of the forest, and from all the sentry had said, the people of Lothlórien were being driven that direction. Legolas hoped Dale was ready for what was about to hit it. They had been forging guns, and it sounded as though they were about to need them.

Lorna gave his father a look that was one part impish and two parts evil, and began to sing. "Do you hear the people sing, lost in the valley of the night?"

Menelwen, not far ahead, picked it up: "It is the music of a people who are climbing to the light."

Ahead of them, a good dozen: "For the wretched of the Earth, there is a flame that never dies."

Still more: "Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise!"

Von Ratched choked on a laugh, and Legolas's father groaned. "Thank you, Lorna," he said flatly.

"You're welcome."

A full chorus took up, before and behind: "They will live again in freedom, in the valley of the lord. They will walk behind the ploughshare, they will put away the sword."

The son spread even wider, until there had to be several thousand voices: "The chain will be broken and all men will have their reward!"

Lorna was visibly trying so very, very hard not to laugh, and honestly, so was Legolas. His father's expression was truly priceless. "Aren't you glad you made me Queen?" she asked, trying for innocence and failing utterly.

"Ecstatic. Stay near me, Dilthen Ettelëa. If you get yourself killed, I will never forgive you."

"Same to you, Drag Queen Barbie. Same to you."

* * *

Von Ratched decided he could be near the Snark Twins no longer, and fell back to walk beside Galadriel, whose face was utterly unreadable. If she was worried for her husband and her people, one would never know it, but she had to be.

Oh, how he wished he could read her mind, but the sheer weight of it against his told him his psyche would be crushed if he tried. This damn world and all its damnably powerful inhumans.

On the other hand, at least he was unlikely to ever get bored.

"I believe I know what we face, my lady," he said. "In the alternate timeline, they would not have appeared for some twenty years, but my children killed a great many of them. Whatever else they may be, they are still mortal."

When she looked at him, there was curiosity in her piercing blue eyes. "Do you seek to reassure me, Doctor?"

"Perhaps."

"Why?"

He pondered that for a moment. "There are very few beings in this or any other world I deem worthy of my respect," he said. "You are one of them. In truth, just now you are the only one. For that, I would offer what reassurance I can."

Her eyes seemed to read into his very soul. "You are rather more complex than you would prefer most to believe, aren't you?"

He arched an eyebrow. "I will thank you to keep that to yourself. My life is much easier when people think me a monster and nothing more."

" _Are_ you a monster?"

"Oh yes," he admitted easily. "Very much so, and I have no qualms about it. There are those who say that evil is not born, but made, but I have always been as I am, and by the standards of my world, I am quite evil. And I think perhaps your people may have need of that, sooner or later."

"Why would you say that?"

"There are a great many things moral people will not do," he said, "but someone must be willing to do them. Of all the lines that might be crossed, there are only two I will not step over."

"And what are those?" Galadriel asked.

"I do not rape, and I do not harm children." The fact that he'd raped Lorna in the other timeline disturbed him greatly, and he wondered what on _Earth_ could have made him do it. He must have gone utterly mad, because, monster though he was, he'd always disdained rapists. He might be perfectly willing to inflict pain, but only in the name of science; he was not some base sadist who performed such things solely for his own gratification. There were, after all, standards to be met.

"You really are a _strange_ creature, Doctor," she said.

He chose to take that as a compliment. "So I have been told. Although my mother preferred to call me a freak."

"How did you respond to that?"

"I killed her."

* * *

Yeah, Von Ratched really is a special little snowflake. Not only did he kill his mother as soon as he turned eighteen, he took pictures of her corpse. Which, in the original timeline, Lorna found.

Title means "Marching" in Irish. You know how it goes: reviews are the gasoline to the engine of my mind.


	18. Go raibh Bearránach

Writing this chapter was like pulling _teeth_ , you guys. Seriously, it gave me so much trouble. I wrote it, scrapped it, re-wrote it, and finally decided to break it into pieces.

* * *

The Mother sat, and watched, and silently raged.

Earth would have fallen to her in a matter of months, but she had no interest in Earth. Not while the other, while _She_ was _here._ She might have stolen humans from Earth, but it was this world she wanted, _needed._ And it was not cooperating.

She was going to have to resort to more drastic measures.

* * *

Bard was trying very, very hard not to panic.

The sentries had spotted the strange battle long before it arrived, which at least meant the farmers and fishermen had a chance to reach safety in the city before they shut the gates. The guards – and anyone else who could hold a gun – lined the walls, and wondered what in Eru's name was going on.

One side were clearly Elves, but the other…Bard didn't know _what_ the other were, only that they seemed to advance with the stormclouds. The light was a strange, sickly yellow, the wind so dry it parched and tightened his skin.

"Do you have any idea what this is?" he asked Ratiri, who loomed beside him.

"Not at all. Unless something go very wrong in my world, this is not from there. I wish we had binoculars." He was squinting into the distance, but the melee wasn't yet near enough to see much.

"What are binoculars?"

"The use light and glass to allow you to see things that are far," Ratiri said. "If we survive everything, I will talk to the Dwarves about them.

Bard would kill someone for them now. With so many Elves mixed in with whatever their enemy was, he didn't trust his aim with a gun – nor did he trust many of the others.

He cast a worried glance at Sigrid, who stood on his other side. _Her_ aim he trusted, but she had never killed anyone, and even if she managed it now, he questioned her ability to deal with it later. She didn't have a warrior's training, for all she was so good with her weapon, and he feared she would fall apart after the fact.

Assuming there _was_ an after the fact. One thing at a time.

Lightning forked through the sky to the north, veining the purple-black clouds, but the rumble of thunder was faint and distant. The incongruously hot wind sighed through the trees, the coppery tang leaving a harsh, astringent taste at the back of his throat, and he wondered if they were all about to die. He wouldn't dare fire his weapon, but he would hesitate even with his bow. Such close fighting as that seemed to be would be risky for any manner of marksman, no matter what their weapon.

He breathed a sigh of relief when more of their dead came creeping over the ridge to the east. Some had gone out to see what was going on, while the rest stayed in either Dale or Erebor. Bard only hesitated to let them fully join the melee because he had no idea what this alien group of Elves would make of them – it could very easily just make things worse. No, they couldn't be harmed themselves, but they would be a terrible distraction the Elves could not afford. Yet, anyway.

* * *

Sharley and Sauron hoofed it past Mirkwood, past a battle that was thankfully too distant to conveniently detour to – though she had no doubt he would have done it anyway, if he'd really wanted to. Fortunately, he seemed more interested in following her to whatever she was hunting. By now, Elves were probably boring, but whatever she was following was brand-new.

The heat and tastes of the wind were familiar, and yet – not. They weren't coming from the Other, but it had to be from somewhere _like_ the Other, and that was…worrying. _Very_ worrying. It whispered through the dry, yellowing grass, tugging at her ponytail, but there was no life at all to it. Even in the Other, zombie of a world though it was, the air felt more alive than _this_.

Ugh, she hated mysteries.

There were people up ahead – or at least, people-shaped things. They lurched like movie-zombies, yet they were alive – although when she drew nearer, she didn't see how they _could_ be.

They were much like the things she and Galadriel had seen, before she destroyed Angmar: humans, technically, but corpse-pale no matter what their race, the veins beneath their skin as black as their whiteless eyes. Stagger though they did, their movements were not mindless: there was purpose there, however minimal, and hunger.

What.

"Have these come from your world?" Sauron asked.

"Nope, but I've seen the once already. They're the reason I destroyed Angmar."

"So do it again. I would like to see."

She shook her head. "Can't. There's still too many living people around here – not that I'd expect you to understand," she said.

"You are right," he said shortly. "I do not."

It had to be bugging the hell out of him, that he couldn't just make her do it, but whatever. That was his problem, not hers. She didn't dare try to kill all of the things, but she could shut the door.

"C'mon," she said. "Let's wreck something."

* * *

As it turned out, the army from Mirkwood didn't have to find the battle. The battle found them.

What came spilling out of the trees might once have been human, but they were…worse, somehow. Their movements were jerky and unnatural, but they weren't mindless – there was purpose there, however strange.

The sky overhead still boiled with clouds, thicker now, the odd yellow of the light rendering everything in faint sepia tones, the blistering wind stirring through the trees. It was one of the weirder things Lorna had yet seen here, and that was really saying something.

The…people…halted on sight of them, staring from across the river. Good God but their eyes were creepy – more like twin black pits, windows into nothing.

"What," Lorna said, "the actual fuck?"

"Unfortunately, I am sure we will find out," Thranduil said dryly. "Archers, take position."

At least the things would have a hard time crossing the river, if they actually decided to try. It was wide here, the current fast; anything that went in would have a hell of a time of getting out again.

Thunder cracked overhead, so loud that Lorna flinched. The archers were undeterred, but she was sticky with sweat, and not just from the heat. Her gut was screaming at her that something was even more wrong than they thought, but since it couldn't tell her what, she ignored it.

"Fire," Thranduil said, almost casually.

A long line of arrows flew, in perfect synchronization – frigging Elvish precision – and not a single one missed its mark. She winced at the sound they made – most films left out the squishy, meaty _thud_ an arrow made when it hit, well, a _person_.

"What in the shit?' she muttered, her words half stolen by the wind.

The things bled, but it was _black_ , like orc blood, and though they screamed, it sure as hell sounded like rage rather than pain.

"This is going to be _so gross_ ," she complained, grabbing the lines of the dozen or so nearest her. Snapping their necks was way, _way_ easier than it should be, and the sound nearly made her sick. At least it proved that they weren't zombies – they dropped, and stayed dropped.

Another line of arrows flew, singing through the air, and another, and Lorna…did what she could. In this she could find no euphoria – whatever these things were now, they had once been human, and killing them, even profaned as they were…it sent an ugly feeling right through her soul. She'd done many terrible things, but she wasn't a killer, not of actual _people_ –

 _yes you are don't you dare forget Da_

-and while these _weren't_ people anymore, she didn't know how much of who they once were might remain, and didn't dare check. She had to kill them, and that was that, and by the time this was over, she really _would_ be sick.

Lightning forked across the clouds, and as if it had flipped a switch, rage stirred within her, hot and welcome. Anger, unlike guilt, she could use.

What had done this to these people? What had turned living, thinking human beings into _this_? The hot wind sighed around her, stealing through her clothes, coating her sinuses and the back of her throat with a bitter tang of metal, and she took it, _fed_ on it. Even if there _was_ anything left of who these people once were, one glance was enough to know they were beyond saving: what she gave them was a mercy, albeit a horrible one.

She shouldn't have to do it. _No one_ should have to. This was monstrous, profane, and when she found whoever had done it, she was going to rip their liver out and shove it down their throat.

* * *

Galadriel had a bow, and Galadriel was doubtless very good with it. She could likely put all the Mirkwood archers to shame, but for now, just for a moment, Galadriel was also undeniably frozen.

Von Ratched didn't wonder why. Tolkien's writings differed on whether or not she'd actually taken part in the Kinslayings, but all agreed that she had _been_ there – and she was the only Elf left in Middle-Earth (barring Maglor, wherever he was) who had witnessed one. Doubtless this was Elven PTSD in action.

Her indecision was so brief that most might have missed it, but Von Ratched was not most. When she raised her bow, he laid a hand on it.

"What did I say about necessary monsters, my lady?" he asked. "Allow me."

There were too many of the damn things for him to get rid of them all at once, even with Lorna snapping necks further up the line – _that_ was going to damage her later, and not physically. At least it wasn't his problem.

He grabbed the threads of heartbeats – dozens of them, scores – thankful the things _had_ heartbeats, and _squeezed._

Their deaths were too instantaneous for pain; they simply dropped, felled immediately, like marionettes with severed strings. He did it again, slow and methodical, as more and more poured out of the treeline. They could not afford to have the Elven army crippled by guilt and emotional agony, but Von Ratched was incapable of either.

On he worked, while the thunder rumbled and the wind swept over and through everything, the heat of it drying and tightening his skin to an unpleasant degree. He wasn't the sort to take satisfaction in killing – he prided himself on being above that – but he _did_ enjoy the opportunity to flex his own power, so often leashed and hidden. Yes, anyone could kill, but so far as he knew, the only other person who could kill like _this_ was Lorna – and she wouldn't do it.

He could feel Galadriel watching him, but he couldn't spare the attention to look at her. Yes, he _was_ a monster, but in this moment he was also a necessary one, as even she would have to concede.

Down they dropped, score by score, with the same precision with which he performed surgery, neat and detached. Von Ratched didn't understand morality, or guilt, and the few things he regretted morality, or guilt, and the few things he regretted were things he had _not_ done. All three were dangerous weaknesses, and he couldn't understand why any would indulge in them. Any of them could all too easily get a person killed. And Von Ratched had no intention of letting anything save time get him.

* * *

Sauron was absolutely fascinated – not just by the phenomenon they approached, but by Sharley.

Something about her was changing – no less tangible for its invisibility. Reading her was never easy, but just now he couldn't read her at all. Her face was a scarred porcelain mask, but her odd, mismatched eyes burned with a curiosity that bordered on unholy – and if anyone knew unholy, it was him.

Before them stood a… _hole_ , a ring of darkness some fifty feet high, from which was spewing a seemingly endless stream of extraordinarily altered Edain. His former master could have done little better; these creatures were a monstrous parody of what they had once been.

He wanted to know who had done it, and how, and _why_.

Sharley swung her sword off her back, drawing it as she did so. The blade glinted in the sickly light, and strangely, _now_ she seemed to know how to properly do it. All the times she'd stabbed him over the weeks, she'd held it as though it were an alien object, and made it quite plain that she did not actually know what she was doing. Now, though…perhaps she still did not know, but it seemed she had a better idea.

What good it would do against that _door_ , he could not guess, and he had no intention of helping her – and not only because he really didn't know what to do. Something like this was wholly outside his experience, and it was _fascinating._

Sharley's eyes darted to and fro as they approached, ignoring and ignored by the…creatures. When they were near enough, perhaps half a dozen yards from the gaping hole, she paused, and smiled, and it was perhaps the strangest expression he had ever seen on a living face. She raised the sword, and swung it almost lazily – and every single one of the no-longer-Edain collapsed.

No more spilled from the hole, though it still stood, emanating metallic heat. Sharley tilted her head to one side, raising her left hand, and made a few complicated twisting motions with her fingers.

"Sauron," she said, her voice curiously flat, "I strongly suggest you shut your eyes."

Of course he did not, and he was glad of it – for when she pulled, the hole collapsed in on itself, sucking in the storm-light as it went, until it snapped shut with a crack like thunder that might have deafened a lesser being.

"Well," she said, sounding a bit more like herself, " _that_ was irritating. Let's find whatever made that, and kill it."

* * *

Ugh, that was harder than it should have been. The next chapter hopefully won't be such a pain to write.

Title means "That was annoying" in Irish. As always, your reviews give me hope.


	19. Tar éis

In which the battle concludes (and the aftermath is horrible for everyone), Sauron and Sharley head off to find the thing that kicked it off to begin with (and he's rather sorry he's got to kill her someday), and the cursed have a large problem (because they totally needed another).

* * *

Galadriel was the only one who would be able to recognize the strange, fëa-sucking rush of power for what it was, but recognize it she did, and breathed a silent sigh of relief.

Sharley was here.

She couldn't kill all of these creatures, not without risking the death of everything else, but she had most likely just destroyed the source – or at the very least, stopped it up.

On they came, the things, and horror gnawed at Galadriel – as it would every Elf, or nearly. Edain too were Children of Ilúvatar, and while they had occasionally forced the Eldar in battle over the ages, killing them nevertheless felt _wrong_. Even these things, which were Edain in shape only.

And yes, in this, she had to concede that Von Ratched was, if not a necessary monster, at least a useful one. He worked with utter dispassion, row by row, with only a faint trace of satisfaction in his pale eyes, which the intermittent lightning lit up into something downright unnatural. Such a strange, _strange_ creature – in a world comprised only of Edain, he would be terrifying. He would be all but unstoppable.

But this was _not_ a world purely of Edain. He was useful, but he was no Maia, no Vala. While she highly doubted he could ever be _controlled_ , he _could_ be stopped, if necessary.

Something told her it would be necessary, in time.

* * *

Thranduil was rather more horrified than he had anticipated.

His horror didn't _stop_ him, but it was nevertheless there. These Edain were not even Edain anymore, and yet his every instinct rebelled against killing them.

He wasn't at his best with a bow – he had always been a swordsman – but he had to take over for this or that archer, when their heart temporarily failed them.

Not that Von Ratched left them with a great deal to do. It galled Thranduil, that he should have any reason to be grateful to the man, but grateful he was. His people were going to be traumatized enough as it was.

Quite without warning, a massive burst of power shuddered through the air, shivering into his very bones, sending his stomach roiling. Within moments, the clouds began to lift, the storm dissipating with unnatural rapidity. The creatures didn't seem to notice, but the rest of his people certainly did, and it visibly heartened them.

 _Sharley_ , he thought, relieved. Granted, where there was Sharley there was also possibly Sauron, but one thing at a time. They could attempt to deal with him later.

He glanced down at Lorna, and was disturbed by what he saw. In her eyes there was not grief, but rage, though she was swift and almost gentle in her kills. Her wrath was not with these poor wretches, but with whatever had created them – and he hoped they wouldn't find it, for she would kill herself trying to kill _it_. Powerful Lorna might be, but she was also mortal – against something that could do this to so many Edain, she wouldn't stand a chance.

* * *

Ratiri was traumatized. There was no other word for it.

He was not – and never had been – a violent person. He'd rarely even got into scrapes as a schoolboy. He'd certainly never _shot_ anyone before – until now. And though these things probably didn't count as 'anyone' anymore, they once had. And now he felt beyond sick.

Not that he had much opportunity to shoot, given how poor his aim was. At least it seemed they'd nearly run through the things – the storm was lifting, and the stream of them seemed no longer endless.

But the carnage…oh, the carnage. Never had he seen anything like it, and he hoped he never would again. And nobody – not the humans on the walls, nor the Elves on the ground – seemed to regard it with the level of horror he did.

Oh, none of them were _enjoying_ themselves, but – well, beside him, Bard looked grim and determined and nothing more. He certainly _didn't_ look as though he were about to be sick. He fired when he had a shot, and immediately hunted for another, without so much as batting an eye.

Sigrid – Sigrid he worried for. She too was grim and methodical, finding far more targets than her father, but tears streamed silently down her face, glittering in the emerging sunlight. He wanted to tell her to get out of there, to go back down behind the wall, but the sad truth was that they needed her. She was a better shot than anyone else on the walls.

But when the air shuddered, when the storm broke – _then_ at least he had some hope. Not _much_ , but _some_.

* * *

There was, Sauron found, surprisingly little temptation to desert Sharley, for all there were those that he would love to slaughter not far away. He was far too curious.

It was, really, part of his nature. Before Morgoth he had served under Aulë, the Smith. Curiosity had led him to Morgoth, and had propelled him forward after his master was banished for the second time.

He was strangely grieved that he was going to have to find a way to kill this odd, scarred creature, the light of whose fëa shone through the cracks in her mind and heart. She was far too much of a threat to him, for all she couldn't actually kill him – she had to die, permanently, yet still he was peculiarly sorry for it.

They were headed north now, picking their way through a field of corpses that would, under the comparative warmth of the sun, soon begin to smell. He trod over them with indifference, but Sharley picked her way around them.

"I wish you could," she said, apropos of nothing.

"Wish I could what?"

She looked at him. "Kill me," she said. "I wish you could. I didn't ask to be… _this_. I died once, and I never woulda chosen to come back. But I gotta warn you now, if you do somehow succeed, _I_ won't mind, but my father will. And you don't want that."

He looked at her – _really_ looked at her. She was so very, very young, yet she carried the weight of eternity in her mismatched eyes. She was a creature wreathed in sorrow, fractured in mind and in fëa, trapped in a body that moved without life. "Who is your father, that you think he could do _me_ harm?"

"Death," she said flatly. "He is the physical embodiment of death, and Ring or no Ring, he could destroy you. It's what he does. If you actually found a way to give me an out, he'd make you pay for it."

 _That_ …Sauron rather wanted to meet him, in truth. "Do you truly long for death, Sharley?" he asked, regarding her curiously.

"I _long_ to not be what I am," she said, stepping around a pile of corpses. "You can't understand what this is like, since you weren't actually made with a body. I was alive for something like twenty-six years, and now I'm…not. I want to breathe without willing it – I want to feel my heart beat, to actually sleep. I want to be able to cry, and I can't do _any_ of that – not as I am now. Unless I'm looking at Time, I don't really even _feel_ anything. It's…numbness, unless I consciously force it away.

Her bony shoulders shrugged, and she gave him a bitter half-smile. "Somebody asked me once if I would be tempted by your Ring. I said no, because it can't give me anything I want."

"Where _is_ my Ring?" he asked. He did not at all understand why she mourned the loss of mortal weakness, and certainly not why or how she could mourn it so much that she would prefer to _die_ , if given the chance – but if he had his Ring, he could give her what she asked.

"Like I'd tell you, even if I know – which I don't." She shook her head, her blue hair bright in the sunlight. "Neither one of us can die, Sauron, not really, but if the person who made those things is anything like me, they can make us _wish_ we were dead. You and I need a plan. I know you think you're invulnerable, but you're not. You can still be hurt."

"And what, precisely, gives you that idea?"

"Because I already did," she said bluntly. "You just don't remember it."

* * *

By the time they reached Dale, Lorna was nearly dead on her feet.

Once upon a time, she could easily manage forty-eight hours without sleep, but those days were long gone now. She was so mired in grief and exhaustion that it was a damn good thing the battle was pretty much over – though she dreaded sleep, because she knew it would bring nothing but nightmares.

What had she just _done_? No matter how many times she told herself that those things hadn't been human anymore, she couldn't escape the fact that they _had_ been, once. No, there was probably no chance they could have been…cured somehow, but _still_. She'd made sure no one would ever know.

She looked up at Thranduil, whose face was a mask of stone, save for his eyes. He'd peered into hell many times, she knew, but repetition didn't make it any easier, so she took his hand. The coolness of his skin had long since stopped feeling alien, and after the blistering heat of the wind, it was welcome. She was sticky with dried sweat, and although she'd drained her canteen, she was still beyond thirsty.

 _At least we didn't lose anyone this time around_ , she sent him. There was _that_ to be grateful for, if nothing else. She didn't think anyone could have borne a second funeral, so soon after the first.

Dale and the Elves from Lothlórien weren't so lucky. The ground around the city was a field of slaughter, littered with corpses both Elf and no-longer-human. Lorna gagged, and before she could help it, she sicked up on the bloody grass. Some Queen she was. She'd missed the direct aftermath of her first battle, wounded as she was, but now…God, how could anyone _do_ this? She fell to her knees, dry-heaving, thoroughly ashamed of letting herself fall apart in front of God and everybody.

Thranduil knelt beside her, and pressed his canteen into her hands. Lorna drank, spat, and drank again, shivering as though in deep cold.

"Is it always like this, afterward?" she asked, unable to look at him.

"Yes," he said gently, laying a hand on her hair.

She shut her eyes, still shivering. "How do you do it? How can you handle it at all?"

"No one does, at first," he said, drawing her close. "All warriors feel thus, in their earliest battles, and you have had to kill creatures who were once your own kind. If you dealt with this without a qualm, I would be very worried. Weep, Lorna. No one would fault you for it."

"I can't," she said, and it was true. Her eyes burned, but they were bone-dry, and would remain that way until she had privacy. Tears would be a help, but even now, she had a hard time producing them. "We should do…something. I'm sure there's something that needs doing."

She rose, her legs trembling, but they held her. Truly falling apart had to wait, because once she started, she wouldn't be able to stop.

Thranduil put his arm around her shoulders, leading her to the city gates. They were open, the pale wood splashed with blood, and she prayed the things hadn't got inside.

To her relief, it didn't seem as though they had. There were no bodies here, no blood – only a load of humans who looked as shell-shocked as she felt. They'd all been through one vicious battle already, but she realized now that it was _only_ one – like her, these people weren't warriors. They fought because they had no choice.

In the main square, a grey-faced Bard stood talking to two Elves – one was Elrohir, bruised and bloody, but the other, a tall blond bloke with a gash across his forehead, she didn't recognize. Both of them looked tired as hell, and more than a little sick themselves.

"Lord Celeborn," Thranduil said. "Your wife will be pleased to see you well. Lord Elrohir, your brother is with my son."

Both of them were immensely, visibly relieved. "I do not suppose you know what it is we just fought, King Thranduil?" Celeborn asked.

"No," he said grimly, "but I mean to find out. We will tend to your wounded, and help you see to your fallen. King Bard, have you lost anyone?"

"No, my lord," Bard said. "Not in body. In spirit…my people are not like yours. They have too little experience with battle."

"They are hardy folk," Thranduil said. "The will heal, in time. With luck, this will be the last battle they need face."

"That any'v us need face," Lorna muttered. She really didn't think she could do that again – which was darkly hilarious, considering how willing she'd been to hurt people for most of her life. There was a big difference, however, between smashing someone's nose with a half-brick, and breaking their neck. A big, _big_ difference. Right now she wanted to crawl into a bottle of whiskey and never come out, but no – she'd let Thranduil talk her into being a bloody queen, so she had to act like one. Trouble was, she had no idea how a queen was _supposed_ to act in a situation like this – all she was sure of was that it didn't involve getting drunk, or vomiting up all the water she'd just drank. Which was unfortunate, because right now, those were the only options that looked like any good.

"Thranduil, you need to tell me what to do," she said quietly. "I don't know how to Queen." Thank God they didn't have any wounded to deal with, but a lot of the Elves had to be as fucked-up as she was, and she had no idea how to comfort them.

"Stay near me, for now," he said, just as quietly. "I do not yet know what is truly needed. We will discover it soon enough."

* * *

As Ratiri had expected, Sigrid was a complete mess – and was apparently very angry about it.

They sat at the base of a staircase that ran up the wall, and she tried to strip her weapon with trembling hands. She kept having to stop to wipe her red-rimmed eyes, muttering, half to herself, that warriors didn't cry.

He took the gun from her, very gently. "On Earth, long past there were people called Romans," he said. "Some of the best warriors who ever lived. They thought there was something wrong with anyone who did not cry after a battle."

Sigrid looked up at him. Her eyelashes were tangled, her cheeks shiny with tear-tracks. "Truly?"

"Truly. They had –" he didn't know the word for 'Empire' "—kingdom, much, much bigger than Dale and Erebor and the Woodland Realm combined. They were the most feared for centuries, and they cried after battle." Which, from a psychological standpoint, made sense – they were coming down off a massive surge of adrenaline, when all emotional barriers were down. And the people of Dale weren't warriors – they didn't have the mental training.

"Then why do you not cry?" she asked.

He sighed heavily. "I can't," he said. "Not yet. There is a chemical the body makes called adrenaline. Mine is still too high. You – you cry because yours has done what doctors call crashing. Right now your mind is like a raw wound. You and I, we will have work soon."

"But none of our people were harmed," she said. "The Elves will see to their own wounded."

"Not all wounds are in body," he said gravely. "Your next lesson will be what my people call psychology. I will teach you about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder." He didn't know how to translate any of those words into Westron, so he said them in English.

"What is that?" she asked, and he was relieved to hear actual curiosity in her tone.

"Something most will suffer from. You and I will be therapists." He'd only taken a basic psychology course in med school, but it was better than nothing – and more than anyone else had, right now.

* * *

Lorna wound up assisting Galadriel and Celeborn with their survivors. Thranduil took their own group out to deal with the dead, but with her back still not properly healed, shoveling was out of the question.

She couldn't exactly say she minded. She knew Dale well enough – she knew where there was extra space, and Ratiri and Sigrid were setting up some kind of field hospital in the market square.

Granted, being seconded to _Galadriel_ was a little daunting, considering she was what a queen actually ought to be. At least she knew what she was doing, so Lorna left her to it, and took care of what practical aspects she could.

The problem as that she was still so sick and shaky, and her head felt _beyond_ weird. It was almost like her brain itched, like it was actually floating within her skull.

She shook herself, trying to ignore the odd sensation as she brought a load of clean linen to the field hospital. The sight of injured Elves remained _wrong_ to her, and there were so very many now.

Halfway there, she nearly ran headlong into Ratiri, who looked every bit as sick as she felt. With him was Sigrid, Bard's eldest, whose eyes were dry, but red.

What could Lorna say? What could _any_ of them say?

"At least it's over," she sighed in Westron. "And Sigrid, your da says you've not lost anyone – nor did we. It's Lady Galadriel's people that suffered most."

Ratiri was looking at her quite oddly. "Lorna, are you feeling all right?" he asked carefully.

"Actually, I feel bloody weird," she said, worry stirring cold in her gut. "Why?"

"Sigrid, I am taking Lorna to your father's house," he said. "Tell him to go find King Thranduil. I think we need to get Von Ratched, too," he added in English.

"What for?" Lorna demanded.

"Because I want to see if this is just you, or if you've both got it." He reached out and touched the air over her head, and what felt very like an electric shock jolted through her. "You have some sort of… _infection_ …in your aura. I've never seen anything like it."

"Should I get this man, Von Ratched?" Sigrid asked.

" _No_ ," Lorna said. "Don't go anywhere near him. I don't want to know what he'd do to your mind – he's got my curse, and he'll do bad things with it if he's let. Just get your da." She was fighting a rapidly-losing battle against a nauseating rise of panic.

Off Sigrid went, and Ratiri swallowed audibly. "Lorna, what do you feel like?" he asked.

"Just… _weird_. Like my brain itches. Why?"

He shut his eyes a moment. "I feel it, too. And if it's affecting Von Ratched, we'll need to go get Katje. I don't know what you've dreamt, but in the other world, those things we just killed had once been like us. And I hope like hell this isn't how they got infected, or we've got a very big problem."

"Brilliant," Lorna muttered – and threw up.

* * *

In the other universe, this actually became a massive, worldwide plague – twenty years later. Don't worry, it'll keep causing problems here, too, though not just for the good guys. XD

Title means "Aftermath" in Irish. As always, your reviews give me life, and let me know if I'm going in the right direction or not.


	20. Modhanna seo Cogadh

In which nobody wants to go back to Mirkwood, Sharley gives Sauron some food for thought, and their enemies decide they hate each other, too.

* * *

Ratiri's words had not made Lorna at all happy, but Thranduil was even less so.

He came to Bard's house with Von Ratched in tow, and did not miss the way Ratiri flinched at the sight of the man.

It seemed Lorna didn't, either, for she placed herself firmly between the two, giving Von Ratched a very pointed glare. Thranduil had no doubt at all he might terrorize poor Ratiri out of sheer pettiness.

And indeed, Von Ratched's eyes flicked to Lorna and Thranduil before traveling to Ratiri, and he gave a slightly exasperated sigh. "Very well, Doctor Duncan," he said. "Read my aura."

Ratiri, ashen-faced, swallowed. "You don't have it," he said, his voice hoarse. " _Why_ don't you have it?"

"I don't know," Von Ratched said, tone laced with irritation. "I know there was a reason, in the other timeline, but I have yet to dream of it. Have you seen to DaVries?"

"Not yet," Ratiri said. "We've – we've sent a messenger to Erebor. She should be here soon." His face went even paler, and Thranduil thought of what Lorna told him had been done to the man's mind, the alteration of his memories. The gleam in Von Ratched's eyes was downright predatory – at least, until Lorna kicked him. Hard.

"Bad doctor," she scolded. "Don't make me sic Galadriel on you."

Thranduil didn't snort, but it was a very near thing. "Children," he said. "We have a task. Ratiri, what do you know from your dreams?"

"Not much," he sighed, his hands clenching in frustration. "Not nearly enough. I know this became a worldwide plague, but not how, or why, or what we did about it."

"If I had the proper tools, I could likely work it out," Von Ratched said. "While there is much that I appreciate about Middle-Earth, it really is appallingly primitive compared to my world. I need a microscope, petri dishes , and an incubator, at the very least. I could build all these things, given the proper tools, but you don't even have _them._

While Thranduil knew full well the man was right, it nevertheless irked him. "You have only dealt with Edain smiths, Doctor," he said, a little shortly. "You would be surprised what Eldar and Dwarves can craft. We cannot move against Thorvald until Lorna is…cured, so we had best start now."

Von Ratched smiled, and it was one of the more unsettling expressions Thranduil had seen. "Very well," he said. "The first thing we need is electricity. Fortunately, you have a decent-sized river."

* * *

Unfortunately for Katje, Sigrid hadn't told her _all_ of what awaited in Dale. They hurried through the rapidly-chilling air, past humans and Elves and Dwarves dealing with piles of dead bodies that she tried not to look at. The scent of blood nearly made her gag, but somehow she held it down. If Sigrid could handle it, she could, too. The poor girl had obviously been crying, and her hands trembled, but she pressed on anyway.

They met up with Lady Galadriel, who left Katje quite tongue-tied. In her white dress she seemed almost to glow in the sunlight – a lone, clean figure amidst so much carnage. Katje's parents had died when she was very little, and her grandmother told her they'd gone to the Angels. Lady Galadriel looked rather like what she'd pictured an angel to be.

When they reached Bard's kitchen, she found Ratiri, Lorna, King Thranduil, and – oh.

Katje halted in her tracks, so suddenly that it was a wonder Lady Galadriel didn't slam right into her. "Lorna," she said, her voice a bit strangled, "I thought you go to Gondor to _kill_ Von Ratched, not _bring him back with you_."

Lorna winced. "Long story," she said, wiping her sweaty forehead. "Ratiri, what's up with aura?"

Poor Ratiri looked incredibly grey in the face, as well as dusty and sweaty. "She has it, too," he sighed.

Alarm twisted in Katje's gut. "Has what?" she asked, though she didn't want to.

"An…infection," he said, mimicking Lorna and wiping his forehead. "The three of us have it, but Von Ratched doesn't, and I don't know why."

"He was born with his Gift," Lady Galadriel said calmly. "The rest of you were not."

Katje turned to look at her, and the deep serenity of those fathomless blue eyes calmed her. "What is – do you know what is?" Both English _and_ Westron chose to fail her.

"No, child, I do not. But that is the only thing that separates him from the rest of you." Her eyes flicked up to King Thranduil. "We must take all of them back to the halls," she said. "And I must consult my Mirror." She turned to Von Ratched, who looked…surprisingly pale, actually. His presence was not quite so horrifying when he shared it with Galadriel, but Katje wanted to flee anyway. She'd got off light compared to some of the others, but even yet she had nightmares.

She shook her head. It felt so floaty that she had to be dehydrated; before they went anywhere, she need water, and a lot of it.

"Katje?" Lorna asked. She looked pale and sick herself, but it could well be from having been out in…well, _that_.

"I am fine," Katje said. "Just thirsty."

"Drink," the King ordered, "and gather what things you wish to bring with you. Lady Galadriel is right – you must go to the halls."

"Oi, I'm not going anywhere without you," Lorna said. "Don't even argue with me."

He looked down at her, and she glared up at him, and in spite of everything, Katje nearly laughed. She was just so _tiny_ , and sweaty, and dusty, with leaves tangled in her long hair, and it was obvious already that she would win. She had him wrapped around her itty-bitty little finger.

"You are the most exasperating creature I have ever met," he sighed. "Ratiri, help me."

Ratiri looked from him to Lorna, clearly torn, and Katje didn't need telepathy to be able to read his mind: Lorna _should_ go back with them, but he didn't want to suffer her wrath the whole way.

"I'm sorry, King Thranduil," he said. "I've dreamt enough of the other world to know what she does to people who cross her. You're right, but I'm not going to press the issue."

The King's glare made him flinch. Katje couldn't blame him; she'd never want such a frigid look turned on _her_. King Thranduil might be very, very pretty, but he was also completely terrifying.

"Lorna," he said, looking down at her again, "I must stay here, for now, but we have two other realms' worth of people in our halls now, and I would rather Legolas not have to deal with it on his own. Yes, you know little of statesmanship, but in this he is not much better equipped than you. He could use your aid."

She scowled up at him. "I hate it when you make sense," she grumbled. "Fine. But you'd best be home as soon as you can. Christ do I wish Middle-Earth had cell phones."

"I have wished that since we _got_ here," Katje muttered. She had mostly acclimated to life in Middle-Earth by now, but there were still some things she missed about Earth, and all of them were technological.

"I will see if the Dwarves will send ravens," he said, "but I do not think I will need to linger more than a few days. We must take care of our dead and tend to our injured, but the Edain have been spared harm. We may well be on our way by the time you reach home."

"You'd better be," Lorna said darkly. "Now give me a kiss before we get this dog and pony show on the road."

"Rinse your mouth out first. I don't want to kiss you when you taste like sick."

"I love you, too."

* * *

Ratiri and Katje hung as far back from Von Ratched as they could. The fact that Lady Galadriel walked near him was the only thing that kept Ratiri from outright fleeing. The mere sight of the man made his heart lurch into his throat, nausea slithering through his gut while his pulse thundered. After the sheer hell the man had put him through, he didn't think he'd ever be able to face Von Ratched with equanimity, no matter what protection he had – and Lady Galadriel was probably as good as you could ever get anywhere, in any world.

He looked at Katje, pale and grim-faced. The infection in her aura appeared worse than Lorna's, for all she seemingly felt fine. The coiling strands of black amid the mingle of red and gold just looked so very, very wrong, darkness moving serpentine through the light.

Lorna looked rather more ill, but she _had_ just been through a battle. For whatever reason, there was markedly less darkness in her aura than his _or_ Katje's, and he found himself wondering if her small size had something to do with it. Katje was nowhere near as tall as he was, but she had to be at least five-ten. If they all possessed the same amount of magic – and that was a big 'if', that he had no way to test – it would be concentrated in her. Denser, like frozen orange juice.

If anyone could find a solution to this, it was probably Galadriel, not Von Ratched. What did he know about magical ailments? Probably nothing. And it was very likely going to annoy him immensely, so Ratiri was glad they had so many Elves around, to act as a buffer.

He tried not to look at the other side of the river – at what lay on the ground. The breaking of the storm left a beautiful autumn day, the sunlight glittering off the water, and it made the piles of corpses even more jarring.

Who was going to deal with them? The Elves of Lothlórien were all going to be in various stages of shock and grief, as well as the humans of Dale, and it galled him that he couldn't stay to help Sigrid. She was in a bad enough way herself, for all she was a tough one. While his psych training was rudimentary, at least he _had_ some. In Mirkwood, he'd be all but useless, because he seriously doubted the Elves were capable of making equipment as sophisticated as Von Ratched wanted.

Lorna elbowed him. "It'll be okay," she said.

"On what do you base _that_?" he asked.

"Gut instinct. And stubbornness. And…Lady Galadriel."

She had a point. "I have to admit, I'd rather be anywhere but where _he_ is," he said. "Even with all these Elves for protection. How did you manage to stand traveling with him for two months?"

She arched an eyebrow. "Thranduil and I made him very uncomfortable," she said blandly. "Add in the fact that we had nine thousand Elves around us…Von Ratched's not stupid, Ratiri. _Evil_ , yes, but he's not dumb. And with Lady Galadriel around – honestly, I think he has some kind'v thing for her. Not like a _romantic_ thing, but…a thing. He actually seems to respect her, at least."

Romantic or not, that was just _creepy_. Ratiri wondered what Galadriel made of it, since she had to be aware of it.

"This isn't like the Institute," Lorna added. "He's got no power here, and he knows it. He might not _like_ it, but he knows it."

Ratiri could only hope she was right.

* * *

The further north she went, the stranger Sharley began to feel.

Time was incredibly unsettled, and it was not her doing. That alone would have been weird enough, but there was something else, something foul, alien in a way unlike whatever had issued from the Door.

She looked at Sauron, who kept silent pace beside her. "What're you doing?" she asked.

He glanced at her, and there was something disturbingly like mischief in his dark eyes. "Helping," he said. "I may not have my Ring, but I am hardly powerless without it."

That was, unfortunately, very true. And unlike her, he actually knew how to use what he still had.

"Where did you go wrong?" she asked, stepping around yet another pile of corpses. "I can see the _when_ , but not the _why_. Why switch from Aulë to Morgoth? What did he promise you?"

"Power," Sauron said simply. "Dominion."

"How the hell could you have _dominion_ if you were someone's servant?" she demanded. "That's kinda an oxymoron. And how much autonomy would someone like Morgoth even give you?"

A very brief flash of irritation crossed his face, and Sharley knew she'd struck a nerve. "It matters not," he said. "Unlike my former master, I am still here."

"And ready to take over the world," she said, "but have you stopped two wonder what'll happen once you have it? You'll die of boredom. You've been fighting and plotting for most of your life – what'll you do when you don't have to do either anymore? Watch your orcs form tribes and go to war with one another? Because they will. Killing things is all _they_ know.

He gave her a very sour look. "And how would you know?"

Her eyebrows rose. "I see potential futures," she said flatly, and barely resisted the urge to add, _duh_. "There's three ways this could go if you actually win, and you find any of them very fun. The problem with being any kind of warrior is that someday you run out of shit to fight. You'll find that conquering Middle-Earth will actually kinda suck. On Earth, there's a saying: be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it."

"What, exactly, are you trying to say?" he asked.

"That if you're as smart as I think you are, you'd best find some other purpose," she said. "I don't think you're _capable_ of finding any actual _good_ purpose, but you'd best find something else."

She doubted he'd believe her, or that her words would sway him, but it was at least food for thought. Somehow, would-be conquerors never _did_ seem to stop and think about what would happen once they'd won. And she wasn't lying when she said Sauron wouldn't enjoy it. Some were better than others, but even in the best of them he was bored spitless.

She was quite sure that whatever they were to face would feel the same. If it and Sauron duked it out, at least she'd have time to figure out how to kill it.

* * *

Von Ratched was both irked and intrigued.

Irked, because he had to invent modern medicine essentially from scratch, but intrigued by what he might find with it.

Microscopes in and of themselves were not difficult to build – they had existed for centuries – but one of the sensitivity he would need _would_ be. Likewise, it was possible to build a primitive incubator without the use of electricity; Edward Trudeau, the second physician to confirm tuberculosis was a contagious disease, had done so. However, it too was more primitive than Von Ratched would like – he wanted as little margin for error as possible. And that meant constructing a hydroelectric dam. Between his knowledge and Elven engineering, such as it was, that shouldn't be _too_ difficult.

"You look very thoughtful, Doctor," Lady Galadriel said.

"I am," he said. "When first I began practicing medicine, our equipment and methods were quite primitive in comparison to the world as I left it. If I am to be at all effective now, I must find a way to duplicate that modernity here. And first I must invent the tools with which to do so."

"Are we truly so primitive to you?" she asked.

"Not to offend, my Lady, but you have no idea," he said. "Your world is as mine was a thousand years ago – and that is a very long time for an Edain. I myself am one hundred and twenty-six, which is older than any other documented human has lived to be, yet to you I would be a child. We have come a very long way in what would not, to you, be a very great deal of time. But now I must start from essentially scratch."

Her damnably piercing blue eyes searched his face. "If only you were born as something other than you are, Doctor," she said.

He wasn't at all offended. "If one ascribes to any notion of Fate, perhaps I am what I am for a reason." He had lived long enough to come to believe that some things _were_ fated. Certainly, he did not believe in coincidence.

"Something brought you _here_ for a reason," she said. "Remember the Mirror, Doctor. You may always be a monster, but that need not be _all_ you are."

* * *

Thorvald was _not_ in a good mood.

His darkness was spreading, yes, but there were too damn many other powerful players on this board. Two of them appeared to be working together in some manner of concert, but the third…well, he questioned the sanity of the third.

Several of the…things…had wandered near the edge of his darkness, and he had captured it for inspection. What he found…disturbed him. Greatly.

What had been done to it, he didn't know. Once it had been a woman, but now it was some monstrous parody of humanity.

It sat on the frozen ground before him, looking up at him with its empty black eyes. Its matted, tangled hair had once been blonde, and its clothes – dark trousers and a torn red shirt – were made of fabric unknown to him. Though it had no expression, its voice, when it spoke, was oddly singsong and childlike.

"Mother doesn't like you," it said, tilting its head to one side. "You're in her way."

"She, it would appear, is in _my_ way," he countered. "This world is mine, or will be."

The creature snorted."Yours? You were born a _human_. You found immortality by chance, little Thorvald. You are not one of us."

There was little point in asking how it knew all these things. He had no patience for the warbling of its voice. The quickest way to know what – and who – lurked within its head was to look. He knelt before the creature, frost crunching beneath him, and was mildly pleased to see uncertainty flicker over its pallid features.

 _He dove into its consciousness before it could speak, and was stunned by what he found._

 _Everyone, every single person he had ever read, had some manner of inner landscape. This creature had only darkness, veined with reddish lightning. It was very warm, and dry – but most intriguingly, and importantly, it was not empty. This creature was linked to all others like it, a hive-mind controlled by he knew not what._

 _He intended to find out._

You should not be here, little Thorvald. _That was not the creature's voice, though it too was female – low and smoky and seductive, with an accent he could not place._

 _"I go where I please," he said, turning where he stood. "Your creatures encroached upon my land."_

It is not your land, little Thorvald. This world is not yours.

 _"It is hardly_ yours, _either," he retorted. "We are both alien here. Though you, I think, are not yet here. Stay where you are, Lady. I have laid claim to this world."_

You lay claim to _nothing._ You are merely a mortal fortunate enough to find eternal life. Stand in my path and I will destroy you.

 _He arched an eyebrow. "I would very much like to see you try. If you wish war, Lady, then war you will have. Greater beings than you have tried and failed to kill me."_

 _He felt a very great pressure on his mind, squeezing, seemingly hunting for his very soul, but one of the facets of his acquired immortality, one that was both a blessing and a curse, was a near-total inability to feel. He felt the fever that scorched eternal through his blood, but pain – and pleasure – were both, so far as he knew, forever lost to him._

 _Telekinesis was of no use within another's mind, but not for nothing was he the most powerful telepath who had ever lived. While he doubted he could hurt this thing, either, he could make its life very unhappy._

 _Nearly all of the creatures in this world were dead, but the size of the hive-mind remained massive. This one was connected to others elsewhere – but not for long._

 _He seized the strange lightning, letting it warp through his fingers, and he felt his enemy's confusion. It made him smile, dark and satisfied – and he pulled._

 _A cacophony of screaming filled his head – very briefly. Very, very briefly. If there was one thing he truly excelled at, it was killing things, and that was made almost criminally easy when all the things were connected._

* * *

Well, at least this will make Sharley and Sauron's lives a little easier.

Title means "this means war" in Irish. As always, your reviews are candy. Feed me.


	21. Amhras

In which Sharley starts to notice Sauron's creepy in ways she didn't anticipate, the Elves head, home, Lorna has some severe doubts about her ability to queen, and we see the Return of Arandur.

* * *

Sharley was not a happy bunny.

With each step she took, Time felt ever more _wrong_. It wasn't any happier than she was. It was like a phantom itch, like a buzz of low-level electricity over her skin. The air smelled strange, too; metallic, but in a different way than the Other. It _burned_ , in a way that was neither pleasant nor unpleasant. It just…was.

Sauron, mercifully, had decided to keep his trap shut for a while, though he was watching her with a scrutiny that would have unnerved her, if she'd had any energy to spare.

She couldn't really blame him. She was one of several anomalies in his world – very _powerful_ anomalies. Sooner or later he'd try to kill her, which she wasn't looking forward to, but if he was scoping her for weak points, he wasn't going to find any. Sauron wasn't stupid; part of Sharley was morbidly curious to see what he would try to do, when he finally did decide to attempt offing her.

But that was later. She had bigger things to worry about. And maybe he did, too.

Never had she seen Time like this. The lines shudder, jerking instead of flowing, distorted by something that had no care for the destruction they wrought. She wondered if this person knew that Time itself was a living thing, that it could be hurt – and that it could be angered.

Somehow, she doubted it. And whoever it was, they might well find out the hard way.

Darkness fell, and when the stars massed, her pace slowed. She'd heard stars described as diamonds, but diamonds were cold, lifeless. They reflected light, but did not create any of their own. Middle-Earth had no light pollution, nothing to dim the staggering beauty of its night sky.

"You act as though you have never seen stars before," Sauron said.

"My world doesn't have any," she said, not taking her eyes off them. "No stars, no moon, no real sun. Middle-Earth…I don't think you properly understand what a gift you have in it. It's still so _young_."

"Arda has existed some twenty thousand years," he pointed out.

She snorted. "Earth's been around for four and a half _billion_ , and the Other's even older. Like I said, you have a gift, and you don't even know it. This world has so much _potential_ , provided you three idiots don't smash it. I'd lay odds you're stronger than both of them, but they're strong in ways you're not – especially whoever's fucking with Time."

Only now did she look at him. He was strong, all right, and ancient, but that very strength might get him in trouble. Sauron – especially this younger Sauron – took it for granted that he'd always win, and not without reason. In a situation like this, he was bound to get overconfident. "When we find them, whoever they are, you need to be willing to listen to me," she said seriously. "No, you can't die, but there are worse things than death. And I _really_ don't want to find out what would happen if you went crazy." She honestly doubted she'd be able to handle him if he did. Her mind didn't work like his – nor did the Stranger's.

He regarded her seriously. "Why do you care so what I would do?" he asked. "Why do you care so about this world, when it is not yours?"

Sharley sighed. "Because it's beautiful," she said, "and I would keep it that way, if I can."

She paused, her eyes flicking briefly to the stars again. She really didn't want to give _Sauron_ of all people this ammunition, but she sort of had to. "You might – you might need to stop me," she said. "When it comes to dealing with this asshole, I mean. The Stranger, it doesn't care about this world or anything in it, and I can't always keep it chained."

He tilted his head to one side. "How, precisely, am I going to stop you, when I cannot kill you?"

Again she sighed. "I don't know," she said. "You're creative. You'll think of something. The Stranger'll turn on you, but it's not like it can do anything to you. If you stab me a few times, it'll at least slow it down."

"You truly are a peculiar creature, Sharley Corwin," he said, and she'd swear there was something approaching admiration in his tone.

"So I've been told," she said dryly. "Though I think this thing we'll be facing has me beat in that department. Here's to hoping it and I don't break…everything."

Sauron arched an eyebrow. "I will be rather annoyed if you break this world before I can conquer it," he said.

"And yet you call _me_ peculiar. I'm telling you, you'd get bored, and you'd get bored fast." And that was assuming Eru didn't decide to sink Middle Earth like he'd sunk Númenor. Not that Sauron knew about that yet.

His expression was blatantly skeptical, but whatever. She didn't intend to give him the opportunity to find out she was right.

Sharley knew, now, what she was going to have to do with him, if Bilbo didn't get that Ring destroyed before this was over. She was no match for Sauron; her _father_ , however, was. If it was at all possible, she would drag Sauron into the Other, and let Azarael distract him until the Ring was taken care of.

And weirdly, it grieved her a little. Sauron was one big walking ball of wasted potential, but he was far past reasoning with. None of his potentialities ended well, including for him, but she knew he'd never believe her, because he didn't want to.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"For what?"

"For what I'm going to have to do to you."

Naturally, he only looked amused. "I still question what you could do to _me_."

The amusement irked her a little. "Let me put it this way, Mairon: I didn't bring you forward in time – I stole the last two Ages of your life. Your memories, your form, _everything you are_ – your life after Celebrimbor no longer exists. _And I can do it again_."

Now, finally, he looked just the slightest bit perturbed, though that odd appreciation remained, and honestly creeped her out a little. She couldn't put a name to it, and that just made it worse. Sharley couldn't kill him, could strip him of his power or unmake him, but that didn't make him safe. Because if he couldn't take her seriously as a threat, he wouldn't take the other one seriously, either. And she wasn't lying when she said she didn't want to know what would happen if he lost his mind.

* * *

Going to sleep that night without Thranduil felt wrong. Even on the nights he didn't actually lie down with her, Lorna always knew he was _near_ , and now he was…not.

 _I am disgustingly co-dependent_ , she thought, staring into the darkness. _I should probably do something about that_. She didn't know what, or how, or even if she really wanted to, and she was tired enough that, wrong or not, sleep soon claimed her.

When she woke the next morning, she was frigid, even with all her layers and blankets. She stuffed her numb feet into her boots, and went to find a bush she could take a leak behind, halfway freezing her arse off in the process. Tea. She needed tea, and a lot of it.

Though her head felt less floaty, the sensation was still there. She didn't feel _sick_ , though – just weird.

Of the four Gifted, only she and Von Ratched were awake, and she had no desire at all to talk to him. She rummaged through her small pack until she found her little canister of tea leaves and the strainer, as well as her small metal pan and canteen. Faelon and Menelwen a fire going, so she went to sit with them.

The sun was just barely rising – an unusually red sun. Lorna didn't think she'd ever seen one so red in Middle-Earth; it made the dewdrops glitter amber.

"They are burning the enemy dead," Faelon said, when she mentioned it. "The smoke reddens the sun."

Lorna shivered, pouring water into her pan and setting it in the coals. The heat of the fire was beyond welcome. "Are you two okay?" she asked. "After yesterday, I mean." They'd all looked as sickened as she felt.

Menelwen stared into the fire, too pale even for an Elf. "No," she said. "None of us are. That was not battle. That was…I do not know _what_ that was."

Lorna didn't, either. "Those things showed up in the other timeline, too," she said. "I don't know what we did about them, though I think I might'v been dead at the time."

Faelon's grey eyes widened. " _Dead?_ "

"I died, at some point," she said, "and came back. I dreamt'v my death, though I've no clue in hell how I came back. Not yet, anyway."

"What is it like, dreaming of what might have been?" Menelwen asked.

"Bloody weird," Lorna sighed. "My life was so different. _I_ was so different. It's hard to fathom it, so I don't try."

"What was it like?" Faelon asked. "Dying, I mean – what was it like?"

"Fast," she said, taking her boiling pan off the coals. "I got my throat ripped out. I don't think it took more than thirty seconds. I didn't even have time for it to really hurt." Thank God for that, too. The dream-memory she had was bad enough.

"Where did you go, afterward?" Menelwen asked.

"I don't know," Lorna said. "Haven't dreamt that yet. I don't know that I want to." Some things, she was sure, were meant to stay a mystery, until the time came. There was such a thing as too much knowledge, though she doubted Von Ratched would agree.

* * *

Thranduil worried, though he knew it was needless. At least worry was a distraction from the decidedly gruesome task at hand.

The Edain of Dale assisted, but it was still slow going. The corpses of the enemy they burned, but they dug proper graves for the fallen Elves – a process both grim and arduous.

Such loss…the Eldar birthed fewer children by the decade. These numbers might not be replaced for centuries, if they could even be replaced at all. Even if they survived this madness, the time of the Elves was waning. He wondered just how long they would manage to linger – how long it would be before the realms of Lothlórien and Imladris took ship.

He doubted many of his people would sail. Valinor held little allure for the Silvan Elves, few of whom had seen the light of the Trees. The Woodland Realm might well endure forever, provided they managed to deal with Sauron and Thorvald and whatever in Eru's name had made these… _things_.

Thranduil wondered if that was even possible.

* * *

To Lorna's relieved delight, Arandur caught up with her midmorning. He hadn't left with the group – he must have followed as quick as he was able.

Physically, he hadn't changed, but his grey eyes were filled with the light of knowledge, and he'd taken to wearing his dark hair in a ponytail, like the humans of Dale. Lorna hadn't realized how much she'd missed him until she was confronted with him.

"You look like life abroad's been good for you," she said, lightly punching him on the arm. "Been enjoying yourself?"

"I was, until… _this_ ," he said, and gave her a slightly reproachful look. "You didn't invite me to your coronation. I had to hear about it through King Dain's ravens."

"It kind'v happened in a hurry," she said. "I think Thranduil wanted to get it over and done with, before I changed my mind. Can't say I blame him, either."

"Did he make you wear a dress?"

Lorna scowled up at him. "Yes," she said, "but it was a simple one. And he very nicely took it off me later, too."

Arandur flushed to the tips of his ears, and looked vaguely ill, which was exactly her intent.

"What've you been doing, while we were away?" she asked, taking pity on him.

"The Dwarves created guns," he said. "Gunpowder was harder. A lot of things exploded, which the Dwarves seemed to enjoy."

"I knew there was a reason I liked Dwarves," she said.

"Katje was a great aid in that, once they had the recipe perfected. Both she and Ratiri have been picking up Westron, but I've still had to translate a good deal. Katje and I have also been tutoring King Dain in English. He wanted to learn, so he could better understand those of our walking dead who speak it. And that is a sentence I never thought I would say," he added.

In spite of everything, Lorna had to laugh a little. "We're turning your poor world upside down, for better or worse. I still can't help but feel that none'v us are meant to be here."

"If you weren't meant to be here, you _wouldn't_ be," Arandur said. "Though I cannot imagine why Ilúvatar would allow _Thorvald_ in."

"From what I know'v the other timeline, he doesn't much care about permission. I killed him there, though, and I'll do it here, if only because I've got no choice." Honestly, she just wanted to hunt him down and have done with it. She wondered if she'd had this many impediments thrown in her path in the other universe, too. Knowing her luck, probably. She couldn't bring herself to tell Arandur about this odd sickness – there was no point in worrying him yet.

Things had got so _complicated_. Part of her missed her earliest days here, when her biggest problems had been nicotine withdrawal and her inability to actually, properly communicate. Now they had zombies and Thorvald and whatever it was they'd just killed – not to mention Von bloody Ratched. She had children who were frozen in time, a title she still had no idea what to do with, and a husband who was going to lose his mind whenever she inevitably died. There was too much riding on her narrow shoulders, and just now she felt like it could crush her.

Lorna simply wasn't built for this kind of responsibility, and without Thranduil next to her, she was at a loss. Who the hell did she think she was kidding? She wasn't a queen – part of her would always be that scrawny homeless kid in Dublin, living totally in the moment because she didn't dare contemplate the future. Hell, she was still that way, but now she had to think about not just her future, but that of an entire bloody kingdom.

She couldn't do it. And oh, that pissed her off – at Thranduil, for saddling her with this, but mostly at herself, for being mad enough to agree to it.

"You seem very thoughtful," Arandur said.

"It's nothing," she sighed. "Nothing anyone can do anything about, anyway." At least she had Legolas to help her, even if he wasn't really much better equipped to handle this than she was. The pair of them would muddle through, even if they probably wouldn't do it very _well_. Hopefully Thranduil really was already on his way home already. Surely even she and Legolas couldn't fuck up _that_ badly in only two or three days, no matter how out of their depth they were.

She hoped, anyway.

* * *

It felt like Arandur had been away from home for years, not months. He'd enjoyed is time in Dale and Erebor immensely, but the looming trees of the Woodland Realm seemed to embrace him, the scent of leaf mold washing over him. Others might find it unpleasant, but to Arandur, it was the smell of home. No matter where he went, no matter how far he traveled once all of this was over, he would always come back in the end. He just wished it was under better circumstances right now.

He wondered how Geezer and Mithrandir were doing, out in the wide world. Probably not too bad, given that Sauron's army was destroyed, and Sauron himself well away from them. They were likely having a much easier time of it than everyone here, since it seemed like every nasty thing in Middle-Earth was migrating its way north.

He looked at Lorna, who had struggled on ahead, talking to people seemingly at random. Had had happened to her face? The army must have seen battle on the way back from Gondor – the scar was too fresh to have happened on the way there. He was likely returning to a people already in mourning.

Still, in grief and in happiness, it was _home_.

* * *

Hi there, Arandur. I've missed you. And congrats, Sharley, for figuring out Sauron's a bit more of a creeper even than you thought.

Title means "Doubts" in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with warm fuzzies.

I have an AU of this AU up on my profile, too: it's called "Into the Woods", and it's a modern variation of the Scottish ballad Tam Lin, with Thranduil in the part of Tam and Lorna as Janet. While I've had little feedback on this site, it's been well appreciated on AO3, if anyone would like to check it out. :)


	22. Obair

In which Lorna, Legolas, and Tauriel attempt to hold shit together in Thranduil's absence, with varying degrees of success, and the people of Lothlórien settle in.

* * *

By the time they reached the halls, Lorna was all but dead on her feet. That was way too much activity to cram into less than a week.

Fortunately, she had Legolas, and he had Tauriel, Marty, and Galion, with Sméagol bringing up the rear. He and Tauriel could handle the military shite, and Lorna could help Galion figure out what to do with everyone else. So far as she knew, Ratiri's and Katje's rooms hadn't been given over to anyone else, so at least she didn't need to worry about _that_.

While a sobering number of Lothlórien's people had died, there were still a good eight thousand of them, not all of whom had come immediately to the halls. What was she to _do_ with them all? She needed her small Council, and then she needed a damn bath. Her back both hurt and itched, as did the scar on her face. Brilliant.

When she stepped through the huge gates, she heaved a sigh of relief. Home. She was _home_. She'd spent so much of her life without one that even now it remained a novel concept.

"All right," she said. "I've got to find Legolas – Lady Galadriel, your people are probably hungry, so if you wouldn't mind settling them in the dining hall for now, we can see about getting them fed while I figure out where to put them all. The kitchen can break out some'v the barrels'v Thranduil's good wine, since I think everyone'll need some. Everybody who's hurt should hit the healing wards, and I would really, really appreciate it if you could direct them there, since you know where they are."

Galadriel was hard to read, but Lorna would swear she was a little amused, in spite of everything. "And you think you are not a queen."

Lorna couldn't help but offer her a crooked smile. "I never said I _wasn't_ one," she said. "I just know I'm total pants at it, but I've got to try, haven't I?"

"I want you to rest, Lorna, once you have everyone settled," Galadriel said seriously. "I know you do not yet feel ill, but you _are_ ill. Do not over-tax yourself."

"I'll try not to," Lorna said, though she knew already she wouldn't try very hard. She'd never yet been unable to pull an all-nighter if she had to, and she doubted one more would kill her. Aside from her floaty head, she really did feel fine.

The same could not be said for Katje, try though the poor woman did to hide it. Normally pale, she now looked outright grey, though she was too stubborn to accept help walking. Lorna had to respect that. She could certainly understand why Katje had been such a close friend of hers, in the other timeline. The woman might look like a runway model, but in her own way, she was probably as tough as Lorna herself.

Ratiri didn't look so great, either, but Lorna suspected he was just tired. Their pace had been fairly grueling, and _he_ hadn't spent almost four months traveling. He hadn't built up the stamina for that sort of things.

She fell back enough to say to him, "Take Katje to the healing wards. She looks like shite. We can deal with Von Ratched and whatever it is he wants later."

He nodded, his mouth pressed in a thin line. "I really don't want to work with that son of a bitch," he sighed.

"I know," Lorna said, "and I can't blame you, but you won't be alone, and he won't try anything so long as Lady Galadriel's here. He's outgunned and he knows it."

"I hope you're right," Ratiri said grimly.

"Von Ratched's evil, but he's not stupid. Lady Galadriel could squish him like a bug, telekinesis or no telekinesis." With any other Elf, Lorna wouldn't be so sure, but Galadriel was…well, _Galadriel_. Von Ratched probably assumed she could push past his defenses whenever she wanted – which she probably could. Lorna hoped that he never found out that she _wouldn't_ , that touching his mind would infect him, like it had infected Thranduil when he touched Lorna's. If he ever figured that out, they might all be fucked, since they still didn't know how to actually cure it. Thranduil's was still only contained.

"Then I'm glad she's staying," Ratiri said. "I'm glad they're _all_ staying."

* * *

Legolas, bless him, seemed to have Elrond's people taken care of. Lorna found him presiding over a Council meeting flanked by a curious Marty and a Tauriel who looked…neutral. That, Lorna knew, was the expression of someone very carefully keeping a lid on their temper.

Legolas himself seemed none too pleased, and Lorna didn't wonder why; she'd opened the door in time for someone to say, "Wait for your father." After he'd spent four months holding shit e together himself, that had to rankle.

"Waiting on much'v anything isn't going to work right now," she said, shoving the door all the way open. "We've all the survivors from Lothlórien to deal with, and it'll be a few days yet before Thranduil gets home. How in Christ's bloody name we're to _feed_ everyone, I don't know, since it didn't look like they'd managed to bring much with them."

"Queen Lorna." That was – hell, what was his name? Arphenion? Something like that. She knew Thranduil didn't like him, anyway. "Good. Maybe now we can get something done."

"If you haven't been getting anything done while we were away, I'll be very annoyed," she said, grabbing the free chair beside Marty. Though it was well-cushioned in rusty velvet, it was far too big, leaving her feet dangling well off the floor. "Legolas, are you going to have to sack someone again?" Thranduil would be far worse than annoyed, if he found things had been at an utter standstill.

"It is possible," he said, a slightly dangerous edge to his voice. His icy, nearly impassive expression was disturbingly reminiscent of his father. "There are some who think I do not have the authority to make decisions on my own behalf."

Oh. Oh, no. "All right, you lot, let me tell you a thing: if Thranduil gets back and finds that out, he won't be pleased, so let's just drop that idea now, shall we?"

"You have the authority now, hiril vuin," Lady Silwen said, shooting Arphenion what Lorna would swear was the Elvish equivalent of a dirty look.

"And Legolas is the one who actually has half a bloody idea what he's doing, so I'll defer to him unless I've got a better idea," Lorna said, looking at him. God, her back hurt. The bathtub was practically calling her name. "We've got to get everyone cleaned up, fed, and housed. I don't even want to think about how we're going to feed them all long-term, but I suppose we've got to, before we're snowed in."

"We've been hunting," Legolas said, "and preserving, but we can't support the population of Lothlórien as well on what we have. We must head further afield. I will lead a hunt, once my father is home."

"Are you sure that is wise, my prince?" Lord (probably) Arphenion asked. His black hair was so shiny it actually looked like a wig. Yikes.

"Why wouldn't it be?" Lorna asked, trying to save poor Legolas any more urge to strangle someone. "It's not like he's not gone on long trips before, and the hunters'll feel better if he's at their head. I'm sure Elladan and Elrohiri'll want to go out, too, if they can."

"They will," Legolas said, with more fervor than he'd probably intended. He must have been going mad the last few days.

"Then let's get everybody settled first. I need a damn bath, and I'll not get one until that's done with."

* * *

Tauriel was immensely grateful to get out of that damned council chamber. Legolas had taken pity on her and sent her to see to the soldiers and guards, while he dealt with the Council. Now that he had Lorna to back him up, maybe they'd get something done. As she'd admitted, she didn't actually know what she was doing, but her title carried weight she probably wasn't aware of. Her self-acknowledged incompetence might actually work in her favor, since they couldn't show her now things were doing without actually _doing_ them.

Meanwhile, Tauriel had a number of deeply traumatized people to deal with. And she had to corner a few o them to find out why.

"It was horrible," Menelwen said, shucking her boots. They'd met up in the guardroom, which was so crowded it was hard to move, but the usual chatter was absent. "They were Edain once, the things we killed, even if they were Edain no longer. I think we've all been trying not to think about it. That way lies madness."

If that was the case, Tauriel knew full well that idleness was the last thing any of them needed. A night of rest, yes, but then she had to think of something for them all to do. Sharley hadn't left them with many spiders to hunt, unfortunately, but holding a weapon again so soon might not be good for some of them anyway.

"I want you to help me draw up a list of those you think are fit to patrol," she said. "Those who are not can help around the halls. Eru knows we need it. Prince Legolas intends to mount a long-range hunt once the King is home, which might be good for many." As much as she wanted to go herself, she knew she needed to stay behind for everyone who couldn't bring themselves to go. They couldn't be left leaderless, and she couldn't drop it on the captains who were already traumatized.

"Yes, Captain," Menelwen said. She was too pale, her stare hollow.

Technically, Tauriel didn't have the authority to do this, but she said, "Send someone to the wine cellar and bring up a few barrels. I think you all need it." After what they'd all been through, she doubted the King would grudge it. And if he did, Lorna would probably back her up on it.

"Thank you, Captain," Menelwen said, visibly relieved. "If we drink enough, perhaps we will not dream."

Tauriel winced. Most of the Guard had yet to reach their first millennium; for most of them, this was only their third battle, and the second in less than a month. And to kill actual _people_ , however altered – it was no wonder they were traumatized. Captain she might be, but in that, she lacked experience. She was going to have to deputize someone who didn't, but for now at least, Menelwen wasn't going to be that person. It was a burden she couldn't yet bear, and Tauriel wondered if any of them could.

Lorna, maybe, if she didn't have some other duty once the King was home. The woman might not actually be a warrior, but she'd lived through both battles – she was their Queen, but she was also friend to many of them. And, rough-edged though she was, she genuinely cared. That would make up for any inevitable lapses in tact.

Tauriel would ask, once she had a chance. She highly doubted Lorna would say no.

* * *

Galadriel saw to it that the injured of her people went to the healing wards, and escorted the rest to the dining hall, where she founds servants busily setting out food and great barrels of wine. The Elves of Lothlórien were not accustomed to drinking away their sorrows, but in this, for now, it might be for the best.

She was the only Elf left in Middle-Earth who had actually taken part in a Kinslaying. Elrond had witnessed one, but he had been a child at the time. While the Edain were not the Eldar, killing them was still Kinslaying of a sort. Her people were not lie the Wood-Elves, either; they did not spend nearly as much time repelling the attacks of orcs, and Lothlórien had no spiders to contend with. The peace of their lives worked against them now.

But they were safe here. Many had thought Thranduil overly paranoid for living as he did, but none would think so now. Galadriel thought nothing short of a dragon would breach those massive gates.

Then again, Doriath and Nargothrond had once been considered impenetrable. Once.

But they had two out of the three Elven Rings, the finest Elven warriors remaining in Middle-Earth, two Edain healers with knowledge of things no Eldar had yet dreamt of, an Edain woman who could (apparently) transfigure things, and another whose sheer stubbornness could probably seal the world together – and who had wound up Queen of the Woodland Realm.

On the whole, Galadriel felt rather sorry for anything that dared attack. Assuming it ever reached the halls through their army of living dead. And that was a sentence Galadriel would never have expected to think.

She'd lived so very long that she'd thought she would never see anything truly _new_ ever again, but this past year had proved hr very wrong. And while some of it was monstrous, she'd seen the wonders of another world's healing, and the alien – but entertaining – mindsets of people from a world without any but Edain. She'd seen Sharley, poor unsettling girl that she was, and Marty, a carefree little child who happened to be a walking corpse. She wondered what other things Sharley's world might have to throw at them, and hoped they need never find out.

Even Galadriel didn't want to meet Sharley's father.

* * *

Lorna paused long enough to take a bath and a cat-nap, and then went to help Legolas with her wet hair wrapped in a towel-turban. (The first time she'd seen Thranduil with one post-bath, she'd just about died laughing.)

"I really don't know how Adar does this," Legolas sighed. He'd brought a small barrel of Thranduil's special reserve into the study and set it on the desk, and he'd already got started on it.

"Between you and me, I'm not sure _he_ knows how he does it, either," she said, filling a glass. "That's the trouble with monarchies. If you're born with the job, you're stuck with it, whether you're any good at it or not."

"Lady Galadriel tells me you are ill," he said, as she clambered up onto one of the armchairs.

Lorna's eyes narrowed. "That wasn't her news to tell," she growled, and took a healthy swig of her wine. Burn, baby, burn. "It's my aura that's sick, not me. I don't know how to translate that into Sindarin. I don't think the aura's the same thing as the fëa, though they might be connected. I'm not going to drop dead'v a fever, is what I'm saying. Ratiri's working on it." She wasn't even going to mention Von Ratched.

Legolas's expression went extremely grave. "If it is infection of the fëa, Adar might be in danger, too."

"I doubt it," Lorna said, taking another swig of wine. "In the other timeline, it only affected my kind. I know his soul and mine've touched, but he's not got my sort'v magic, and I'm pretty sure that's what gets infected. That's probably one of the few things we _haven't_ got to worry about."

Legolas looked extremely dubious, but didn't press it. "Tauriel wants to know if you will go to the guards," he said. "She thinks you might be able to help them."

Lorna snorted into her wine glass. The fumes made her sinuses burn. "I can try," she said. "After something like _that_ , I don't know how much good I'll be, but I'll try." Though what in God's name _could_ she try? She didn't know a damn thing about helping traumatized people, beyond getting them drunk. It was the only way she knew how to deal with trauma herself.

"I think anything might help," he said. "I am simply not prepared for this."

" _Nobody_ is," she said. "You've got probably all the Elves in Middle-Earth under your roof now. I'd imagine even Lady Galadriel'd have a hard time with that. We'll probably fuck up everything, but we've got your da to sort it out when he gets home."

Now it was Legolas who snorted. "Poor Adar."

"I'll make it up to him," she said, and laughed poor Legolas's revolted expression.

* * *

Eventually, Lorna grabbed her not-quite-a-guitar, and made her somewhat drunken way to the guardroom. As she'd expected, it was full of equally drunken guards. Few of the lanterns were lit, and the fire had burned now, so the vast room was dim, and quite warm from the heat of so many bodies.

It was also unusually quiet, though that was not unexpected. Elves, when grieving, seemed to clam up unless they were singing some lament or other, so she'd give them a new one. It was the only thing she could think of to do, since God knew she didn't know what to say herself just yet.

There was no actual chair or bench space, so she sat on one of the long tables, checking her instrument – of course it was still in tune, because Elves. Even drunk as she was, she couldn't muck up this one.

 _The sheep's in the meadow_  
 _The cow's in the corn_  
 _Now is the time for a child to be born_  
 _He'll laugh at the moon_  
 _And cry for the sun_  
 _And if it's a boy he'll carry a gun_  
 _Sang the crow on the cradle_

This was an old song, based off a poem, if she wasn't mistaken. The tune was exactly the sort of simple melancholy the Elves seemed to favor in times like these.

 _And if it should be that this baby's a girl_  
 _Never you mind if her hair doesn't curl_  
 _With rings on her fingers_  
 _And bells on her toes_  
 _And a bomber above her wherever she goes_  
 _Sang the crow on the cradle_

It had been too long since she'd played guitar – she could tell already her fingers would be sore later. It had been awhile since she _sang_ , too, impromptu _Les Miserables_ showtunes notwithstanding, but she doubted any of the guards would mind.

 _The crow on the cradle_  
 _The dark and the light_  
 _Somebody's baby is born for a fight_  
 _The crow on the cradle_  
 _The white and the black_  
 _Somebody's baby is not coming back_  
 _Sang the crow on the cradle_

Silence had fallen, and she could feel all the eyes on her, but not for nothing had she fed herself and Liam by panhandling. The emotion you put into a song was every bit as important as the sound, which was partly why she'd disliked most modern music back on Earth: so little of it seemed to have any soul. If you were going to bother playing music, you needed to actually feel it.

 _Your mother and father will scrape and they'll save_  
 _To build you a coffin and dig you a grave_  
 _Hush-a-bye little one, why do you weep_  
 _For we've got a toy that can put you to sleep_  
 _Sang the crow on the cradle_

Lorna was feeling it now, and she was pretty sure the others were, too. You had to let it hurt, and after the last battle, she knew the Elves weren't so great at that, especially the younger ones. They didn't know what to do with that pain, because they never expected to lose anyone, whereas humans lived their lives knowing they might well lose everyone. They knew that some of the people they loved were going to die before them, sooner or later.

There wasn't much help she knew how to give. She wasn't a therapist; she didn't really know what to say that wouldn't sound trite. She still wasn't that great at using her words, and probably never would be. Music, though, was a universal language.

 _Bring me my gun, and I'll shoot that bird dead_  
 _That's what your mother and father once said_  
 _Crow on the cradle, what shall I do_  
 _Ah, this is a thing that I'll leave up to you_  
 _Sang the crow on the cradle_

A few of them, she saw, were crying, but that was a good thing – Elves seemed almost as incapable of tears as she was, for all tears could be cathartic. They could drain some of the poison of grief, if only a little. And Christ knew this song was sad enough. She wished she could join them, but that just wasn't going to happen in front of anyone but Thranduil. She literally couldn't do it right now.

She let the last notes of the guitar linger, and then sat feeling very awkward, for she didn't know what to say. They needed Ratiri for that, but Ratiri wasn't available. It was, unfortunately, down to her, and her brain didn't seem to want to string a coherent sentence together. The silence, the dim heat of the room, the scent of smoke and leather, all somehow combined to leave her mute.

"Do you – do you have more like that?" Faelon asked.

Lorna sighed. "I've got too bloody many more like that," she said. "We're a fatalistic lot, us Edain. We've got lots'v songs about war and death and heartache."

"Could you give us another one?" Amaniel asked.

"I can give you a baker's dozen, if you'd like," Lorna said, re-tuning her guitar.

Give she did, until her fingers burned and her voice gave out. She hoped like hell it was working, because she didn't know what else to do. By the time she was through, she had a group of very drunk, very maudlin Elves, but at least it meant they were working through their grief. She hoped so, anyway. Sure God did they all need a real therapist. After all this, Thranduil wasn't going to be the only one with a whopping case of PTSD, and she had zero idea what to do about it.

She had a sudden, strong, thankfully transient urge to bust into a rendition of "What Does the Fox Say?", just to liven things up. Entertaining – and possibly helpful – though that would be, Lorna didn't need them all thinking she'd truly gone mad, but someday, when all this shit was over, she'd teach them the song. And the dance. Thranduil's inevitable expression would make it all worth it.

* * *

"Crow on the Cradle" is in fact an old folk song; my favorite rendition is by Judy Collins. "What Does the Fox Say?" was hugely popular two years ago. I offer you the mental image of a bunch of Elves as backup dancers. Feel free to imagine Lorna in a fox costume, just for the hell of it. Speaking of which, I'm curious: do you any of you headcanon any of my characters as real-life people? I have headcanons for everyone except Lorna, but I'd love to know what you guys think.

Title means "Working" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill me with life and love.


	23. Rómhion

In which Thranduil gets home, Von Ratched gets busy (no, not like _that_ ), Lorna gets territorial, Sauron gets philosophical, and Sharley gets creepy. More so.

I also finally got up the outtake from Lorna's coronation day on AO3. It features a little bondage, a lot of snark, and Lorna threatening to write poetry about how good Thranduil's ass looks in black velvet.

* * *

When Thranduil returned, he was exhausted. He hadn't slept in nearly a week, which was too long even for an Elf, and he wanted nothing more than to bathe and go to bed.

Fortunately, he found no crises – only a vast number of Elves in deep mourning. Legolas and Lorna had held things together in his absence, and once he had taken a quick bath, he dragged the latter to bed – to sleep. He had no energy for anything more, and after his gruesome task, he knew he would rest better if she was near.

Clean, in his own bed, his tiny wife plastered against his side like an overgrown cat, her hair threatening to eat them both…perhaps, if he was lucky, the inevitable nightmares would not find him yet. He couldn't let himself think about what he'd had to bury. Those creatures might not have been as destructive to a body as the Memories, but they were bad enough.

"Everybody's safe now, you know," Lorna said, her breath warm on his neck. "They're all in here, and you know damn well _nothing's_ getting in here if you don't let it. It'll just have to sit outside and besiege the gates until we've killed Thorvald."

She was right, but that didn't help. They had lost too many. "What of you?" he asked, his fingers twining in her hair. "Does anyone know yet what malady afflicts you?"

"No," she sighed. "But Ratiri says my aura's still mostly clear, which he thinks is somehow down to you. I don't feel _sick_ at all, though poor Katje does. Whatever this is, she's got it bad."

"If we kill Thorvald, will she recover?"

Thranduil felt Lorna shrug. "Nobody knows. I don't think any'v the others'v dreamt much more about this than I have."

She fell silent, and he could practically _hear_ her thinking. "What is it, Lorna?" he asked, fingers playing along her arm.

"I don't think this _is_ Thorvald," she said. "Ratiri's right about this being connected to our magic, I'm sure, but I think this is whatever made those…things. Sharley might be the one who's got to deal with this. And Christ knows how long _that_ will take."

Thranduil turned an idea over in his mind. "Do you remember what I did, when we were journeying back from Dale last winter? The anchor I put on your fëa?"

Lorna shuddered. "Unfortunately, yes. That hurt worse than childbirth."

"I think it might be why you are so little affected now. If I do the same for Katje and Ratiri, perhaps it will aid them."

"Drug them first," she said firmly. "That kind'v pain would probably give them flashbacks to the Institute. I don't know the entirety'v what Von Ratched did to them there, but it had to have hurt. A lot. We don't need them having any worse PTSD than they've already got." She sighed. "Them, the survivors of Lothlórien, and our entire damn army. It's a good thing we're safe, because everyone's a mess."

"They will heal," he said, drowsiness thick in his voice. "It will take time, but they will heal."

* * *

Von Ratched was learning smithcraft.

It was hot, tiresome, uncomfortable work, and he learned in short order it was best completed without a shirt, but he knew what he needed and the Elves didn't, so he thought it best he just make it himself.

The turbines for the damn he let them get on with, but he spent his nights carving molds for the microscope, and his days melting and shaping metal, ignoring all around him. He'd always had a superior ability to block out distractions, and it served him well now.

The forge was sweltering, and a certain amount of dirt was unavoidable, though he imagined it was rather cleaner than most forges. His tools he had borrowed from the jewelers – a very fine hammer and even finer chisel, the end so sharp that it took little effort to score steel.

The Elves, naturally, had no idea what the metric system was; he'd had to use the length of his index finger to craft a ruler, and patiently carve each millimeter. He used it now as a guide, pausing every so often to wipe the sweat from his eyes. While his fingers were not quite as dexterous as an Elf's, they were damn close; each tiny score was as close to perfect as it could be without calibrated machinery.

He was dimly aware that a silent smith would occasionally peer over his shoulder; he only registered their presence because their curiosity was palpable. He also knew that several of them had been rather grudgingly impressed by his precision.

The last miniscule score completed, Von Ratched blew away the tiny metal shavings. This was the second piece; he had eight more to go, not including the lens housing.

At this rate, all three of his patients would be dead before all his equipment was completed.

"What happened to your back?" That was Bellethiel, head smith. She was tall even for an Elf, her eyes as dark as her hair, muscled in a way even the warriors were not. She rarely spoke, and when she did, her voice was jarringly soft.

"My mother," he said, setting aside the piece and grabbing another. "That ceased when I was ten."

"Why?" she asked, picking up his finished product and inspecting it. The metal glinted in the red forge-light.

Von Ratched smirked. "I broke her mind," he said. "Each blow she dealt, she felt tenfold."

He could feel Bellethiel's gaze on the back of her head. "You were _ten_ ," she said flatly.

"I killed her eight years later. There were none who mourned." It was true; she was a bitter, vicious woman, without friends or other family. His father had left two months before he was born, and Von Ratched could not fault him for it. The real question was why they had married in the first place.

Bellethiel said nothing, and he didn't need to read her mind to know what she was thinking – that his genius was wasted upon such a monster. All the Elves he'd worked with thought so, though few had said it aloud. If the Elves had one very great flaw, it was that most of them saw the world in terms of black and white, good and evil, with no room for anything in between. It was no wonder that those who did not sail were destined to Fade. The world was growing ever more filled with grey, and they couldn't handle it. Nobody could, who dealt in such absolutes.

He wondered if any of those who had come from his own world would be destined to return to it. Middle-Earth was beautiful, but he did not want to live the rest of his life here – and not just because he was outmatched by so many people. Von Ratched was and always would be a scientist at heart, and unless he singlehandedly invented modern technology, he couldn't do that here.

And, lacking his treatment as he did, he had already begun aging normally again. He had spent his adult life chasing immortality, or at least a drastically extended lifespan. While he _could_ theoretically achieve that here, it would take years, and much creativity on his part.

The others might have accepted and embraced their new lives, but Middle-Earth was not his home, and he would not stay here forever. Once this was over, he needed a way back.

* * *

When Lorna woke, Thranduil was still asleep, his fixed zombie-stare trained on the ceiling. He didn't wake even when she squirmed out of his grasp to head for the bathroom, and she wondered if he'd been sleeping as poorly as her – or if he'd even slept at all.

The bathroom was downright chilly, the floor cold beneath her bare feet. The Elves didn't have running water in the same way Earth did – it was all gravity-fed, which meant it was such a hassle only posh people had it. There were no hot or cold taps for the sink – it was just cold, and washing her face in the icy water left it tingling. A hot bath sounded marvelous, but there likely wasn't time; the water in the boiler would only be hot if a fire had been lit under it, and she doubted anyone would have thought to, since Thranduil had used it last night. Oh well.

She grabbed some of the bread and cheese she'd squirreled away yesterday – that was a habit she doubted she'd ever give up – and went to poke up the fire so she could brush her hair without shivering to death. God but she was glad Thranduil was home, and she didn't have to worry about planning each day. She and Legolas would have run out of ideas pretty damn fast.

Legolas, who could go on the hunt he'd been itching for. That would get a number of people out from under their feet. That just left figuring out what to do with the rest of them, now that they were more or less settled.

The fire crackled as she added another hunk of wood, the heat more than welcome as she drew her armchair closer. A knot of tension she hadn't known she carried eased as she ate her breakfast, staring into the dancing flames. Thranduil was home. All was right with the world.

"Lorna, I'm cold," he complained, and she nearly choked on a bite of cheese.

"I've built up the fire," she said, coughing.

"I don't want the fire, I want _you_ ," he said, so petulantly that it had to be deliberate.

"As much as I'd love to say in bed with you all day, we've a load'v shite to do," she sighed. "Legolas and I held things together while you were away, but only just. It's you the Council'll want to talk to. I swear Legolas was ready to gut a few'v them before I got home." She still didn't understand why they'd be more apt to follow her word than his, when he was the one who actually knew what he was doing. It was probably some weird royalty thing nobody had bothered explaining.

"That is my fault," Thranduil sighed, rising. "I did not force him to assume greater authority when I ought to have. It is no great wonder they do not take him as seriously as they should. He has been content to be a warrior, and I too content to let him." He shrugged into a burgundy dressing-gown and joined her by the fire, still looking quite put-out – for him, anyway. Most probably wouldn't be able to tell.

"Well, we'll deal with it all today, and tonight I'll do horribly perverted things to you," Lorna promised. "Cross my heart."

He laughed a little, though wearily, and she wondered just what the hell he'd seen, while he was helping bury all those dead. When he sat in the chair opposite her, she saw his face was all but grey.

"Go put some actual clothes on and I'll brush your hair," she said. Even after so short an absence, Lorna felt almost compelled to touch him – in any way, not just kinky. Yes, she was in fact stupidly co-dependent, but at least Thranduil seemed just as bad.

Go he did not, however. "Kiss me first," he said, holding out one long white hand to her.

Though she knew full well it was a mistake, she took it, and let him pull her onto his lap. Damn the man – Elf. He knew she wasn't going to push him away of her own volition.

"I haven't finished my breakfast," she grumbled, carding her fingers through his pale hair.

"However can I make it up to you?" he deadpanned, and kissed her.

How he could taste so good this early in the morning, she didn't know, but it wasn't fair. They weren't going to make it anywhere near the door at this rate – especially since his hands were beginning to roam in a way that was entirely too distracting.

A knock on the door made them both groan, and not in the fun way.

"S'pose it's too much to hope they'll go away," she sighed, resting her forehead in the crook of his neck.

"More than likely," Thranduil muttered. "Unless it is an emergency, I am sending them away."

Lorna smiled to herself. "Half a moment," she said, and sat up. Thranduil let her tilt his head slightly with a look of tolerant bemusement, and groaned again when she set to giving him what she intended to be a truly impressive hickey, adding a few nips with her teeth for maximum efficiency. His skin was so pale that a mark appeared almost immediately.

"Lorna, if you keep that up, I am not going to be able to stand with any dignity," he said.

"Well, at least now they know what they're interrupting," she said, sitting aback to observe her handiwork. "And, y'know, that you're mine."

He arched an eyebrow. "Possessive little thing, aren't you?" he observed.

" _Duh_ ," she said, rising. She wasn't going to mention that it had reached her ears that some of the Lothlórien Elves had…doubts. She'd actually overheard one of them, who presumably didn't know she spoke Sindarin, lament poor King Thranduil's fate at being tied to an Edain wife. Fortunately, Lorna had grown enough as a person that she'd managed to avoid clawing the arsehole's eyes out. There was too much to do for her to contemplate any manner of actual _vengeance_ on the silly bint, so she'd just leave Thranduil with a little evidence that he did indeed get some rather nice things out of his fate. "Let's get to it."

* * *

Deep in the wreck of the Angmar that never was, it would seem Sharley found something. Sauron could only assume so, however, because she naturally refused to _speak._

The dawn was colorless and frigid, the air strangely murky. It dulled the blue of her hair, washing it out with the rest of the wasted, deadened plane. Only her eyes remained bright, fixed unblinking on something he could not see.

Whatever they hunted, he knew that it must be near. The force of power it exuded grew ever stronger, and the wish to suborn it, to break it and turn it to his side, as all but irresistible. To bend such power to his will – every fiber of his being craved it.

But that would put him at odds with Sharley, and that he did not want – and not only because he knew she could make his life an utter misery if he did. This odd, scarred creature did not deserve what he would have to try to do with her. Half-mad, half-broken, dead and alive at the same time…he did not want to make an enemy of this beautiful abomination.

If he was to accomplish anything, he had to send her back where she came from. He could bring no torment upon her. She was worth more than that.

"Two miles," she said, her eyes flicking to him. "Two miles and we've found it. Her."

"And then?" he asked, wondering if she had anything like a plan.

"Don't turn on me," she said flatly. "Not that I think you'll be tempted to, once we've met her, but still."

She said nothing more – just stepped forward, her tread still too silent for a solid being. The frost-furred gravel crunched beneath his boots, but even now she made no sound, and the light of her broken fëa burned his eyes.

* * *

Sharley was even less happy than she'd been thus far. Which was really, really saying something.

She kept having brief visual flashes of some other place entirely – a place her brain labeled the Elsewhere, the land her enemy came from. And they did not at all fill her with confidence.

In the other timeline, she knew, her foe had had twenty years to build up an army, and was far more advanced than she was now. Unfortunately, that was _all_ Sharley knew – she could see nothing more, no matter how hard she looked.

Sauron, she was sure, could see the murk in the air, though she doubted he knew what it was. Time was even unhappier than her, but she didn't dare do anything about it until she heard more.

 _You are too cautious, Sharley_ , the Stranger whispered within her mind. _It will not serve you here. This thing we face does not understand the meaning of the word. You must make ready now, because the others may not be near to help you. They cannot linger in the presence of another such as yourself._

 _That_ nearly stopped her cold. Sharley had only ever lost her voices once, and the result…hadn't been pretty. To lose them _now_ might be a disaster. The voice, even Kurt, were guides of a sort. They kept her within screaming distance of human. Without them…well. There was no way this was ending well, without them.

She was cautious. She always had been, for fear that she would shatter, well, _everything._ Listening to the Stranger was rarely a wise idea, but maybe, just this once…she was going to be facing something that was probably used to being able to kick everyone's ass. It might be best to let it know that she was hard to kick.

Sharley halted again, feeling the Time around her. It was so wrong that it almost gave her phantom nausea, the frayed ends like raw nerves. When she touched them, they filled her with a vague memory of pain.

Yeah, fuck this.

Sauron, she was sure, would not interrupt her; he was too curious for that. This couldn't harm him, although it might feel unpleasant.

 _Arda was so young, and had so very much Time to spare. Even tormented as it was, it would be no stretch to weave it._

 _Twenty thousand-odd years of history bore down upon her when she connected two of the broken threads, their pain burning her fingers. She pressed them hard, willing a little of her own energy to cauterize the tear, and drew them to a heavier, healthy line, flaring green and gold with Arda's pulse. She wasn't quite sure what anchoring them to it would do, but they were about to find out._

 _The air around her shivered, and it sent an odd tingling through her spine, like a nerve that had gone to sleep and was now waking up. Her nerves hadn't functioned in fifty years, and she paused to enjoy the strange sensation. A little of the flat dimness left the light, and she smiled._

 _Touching Time made her actually feel the cold, and she welcomed it. She hadn't realized how much she missed shivering until she couldn't do it anymore._

 _She took another thread, gleaming red, smoothing the frayed edges. It warmed her fingers like a line of sunshine, and she'd swear she could feel its gratitude as she connected it to a heavier thread of glittering blue. The lines weren't supposed to intersect like that, but it would confuse the hell out of her enemy._

 _For the briefest instant, the shimmering ghost-image of a long-destroyed building flickered in the air, and Sharley paused. She suddenly had a terrible idea – a horrible, awful,_ disaster _of an idea. She didn't want to have to do it, but if it came down to it – if the creature they faced drove her to it –_

 _Well. A lot of very horrific things had happened in Angmar's history. If she had to, she could use that._

 _She caught another line, shimmering green, relishing the dissonance of warm Time and frigid air. The pulse of it traveled through her fingertips, up her arm, and into her atrophied heart, and she forced a breath just for the feel of it, for this brief facsimile of life. Whatever she was to face might equal or surpass her in skill, but it didn't_ understand _Time as she did. It couldn't, or it wouldn't abuse it so. Time didn't just have a life, it had a will – it could be hurt, and it could be healed._

 _It was also fully capable of seeking vengeance._

 _Line after line she grabbed, sealing them together through sheer force of will. Her weaving was not aimless – it was a cage she made, a barrier against whatever paradox she or her enemy might create. And Time, it seemed, knew what she was doing, for it made no protest. Indeed, it almost seemed eager to help, the broken lines drawing near her of their own accord._

 _She was going to break something. Of that, she was entirely certain – but she need not break everything. Time and Arda would aid her – as would Sauron, however large a problem he would be later. For now he was her ally, an ally without scruple or remorse, which was exactly what she needed._

* * *

Yes, in the next chapter, Sharley and Sauron are going to face off with the Mother. God help everyone, including me.

Title means "Busy" in Irish. As always, your reviews fill my heart with rainbows.


	24. Cuimhní a Dhéanamh

In which Sauron and Sharley find what they're looking for, he fucks up, and she…well. You'll see. This chapter is relatively short, but I thought it stood best on its own.

* * *

Angmar had been razed long before Sharley came and razed it right out of history, but her nemesis, it would seem, had been busy.

She and Sauron stood at the edge of a small, shallow valley. The sun had just barely cleared the mountains to the east, but the golden light did nothing to ease the bland ugliness of what it touched below.

There were several large buildings, square and featureless, built of grey brick that could only have come from Earth. People milled among them – human, and most in various military uniforms that had also come from Earth. These were real people, not the things she had killed, and that…that was a problem. Many were armed, and they moved among an alarming number of tanks – but they were _people_. Living, breathing, thinking humans.

Humans that were going to get in the way. Humans someone might have to kill – and that someone couldn't be her. It just couldn't.

It didn't help at all that the Stranger had been right – she was alone, now, alone in her head but for it. And oh, that _hurt_ , and for once she didn't welcome the pain. It was in her head, yes, but worse in her heart: a hollowness, numb and chilly as the morning air. Had she been alone, it might have driven her to her knees, but she couldn't let Sauron witness that. He was an ally of convenience, not choice; she didn't know what he'd do if he spotted weakness in her, and didn't want to find out.

This, however, she couldn't help. Sharley was many things, but a murderer she was not. Yes, conceivably she could kill every single one of these people even at this distance, but being physically able and _mentally_ able were not the same thing.

 _Let me, Sharley_ , the Stranger whispered. _Let me, until we find her._

Sharley shut her eyes for a moment. Yes, the Stranger would have no qualm about doing her dirty work for her, but it would still be with her hands.

"No," she whispered. "Sauron, you're – you. Come on." Sauron was in fact _him_ ; she couldn't control him. He'd kill everyone whether she wanted him to or not, just because he could.

She took a step forward, but the pain in her chest only grew, and the lingering bit of her that remained human choked on a gasp, the sound escaping her clenched teeth before she could help it. Her inner Other was an empty wasteland – for the Stranger, loath though she was to admit it, was merely another facet of herself.

Sharley looked up at Sauron, pressing her hand to her temple, as though by doing so she could summon her voices back to her side. "How can you be so – so _alone_ in your own head? How can you live like that?" she asked – and if there was a trace of desperation in her voice…well, fuck it.

There was unbridled curiosity in his grey eyes. "I might ask the same of you, you fragmented creature," he said. "Does it pain you?"

"Yes," she admitted, since there was no point in lying. It felt like someone had lodged a red-hot iron in her heart, useless though the organ was to her, but worse still was the ache of _isolation_. It clawed at whatever passed for her soul, slicing at it like the tiniest of razors.

Without warning, he took her hand, and she automatically tried to jerk away. He looked every bit as revolted as she felt, but he didn't let go. Her physical strength was no match for his.

"What're you _doing_?" she demanded.

"You do not have the luxury of being broken right now, Sharley," he said, his voice threaded with distaste. "Be still."

Normally Sharley was very good at still, but not right now. Searing heat flooded her empty veins, but this pain _was_ welcome, for it was alive. _Evil_ , but alive, driving away the yawning emptiness that suffused her. The strange greyness of mental isolation burned away, all the disparate pieces of her self temporarily glued together by a peculiar and alien fury. Sharley was not by nature a creature of rage; she walked in curiosity and in sorrow. True wrath was unknown to her, but just now she didn't want to fight it. She needed to feel something – _anything_ , anything to drive away the numbness of such mental desolation. Yes, it burned, but it made her feel something close to alive.

He released her hand, and half unconsciously wiped it on her jeans. People might hate touching Sharley, but she hated _being_ touched just as much.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"I have not the words to explain it," Sauron said. "Not in your tongue. In this you will need wrath, Sharley. The good might disdain hatred, but it can be an immensely useful tool."

"Thanks," she said, a trifle awkwardly. "I think."

"Do not thank me yet," he said. "There will be a price to pay, when this wears off. You will not enjoy it."

 _That_ was probably a vast understatement, but it could wait.

How strange it was, to feel the heat of that alien anger coursing through her veins, in some odd substitute for blood. Her heart remained still in her chest, but she nevertheless _felt_ something.

"Let's go," she said. She probably shouldn't be looking forward to this, but she was. She really, really was.

The air grew markedly warmer the further down they went – unnaturally so. The harsh, metallic, vaguely sulphuric scent of what was presumably the Elsewhere hung heavy in it, so unpleasant she was glad she didn't actually need to breathe.

It was really somewhat pathetic, that they weren't spotted until they'd nearly reached the valley floor. Between her hair, and the fact that Sauron was seven feet tall and dressed in spiky black armor, they should have been seen as soon as they reached the valley's edge.

She wasn't surprised that nobody mobbed them; she _was_ surprised that nobody shot at them. Scattered rock crunched beneath Sauron's heavy boots – the only sound to be heard. None of the soldiers, if soldiers they were, spoke; they merely watched, their eyes strangely bright and glassy, as the pair approached.

Kurt or Jimmy probably would have made some snarky comment at this point. Sharley wasn't any good at snark, so she said nothing.

Sauron, however, did. "These people are thralls," he said, open derision in his tone, "and they are not even aware of it."

Their lack of pants-pissing terror was evidence enough of that, since it would have been the proper human reaction to, well, Sauron. While their faces weren't precisely vacant, Sharley wasn't sure just who was home behind their eyes. Though it was strangely warm down here, it wasn't warm enough to account for the sheen of sweat on every face, glistening unpleasantly in the sunrise.

Still they stood, and still none spoke, and she found herself irrationally angry, her hand itching for the hilt of her sword. That, she was sure, was Sauron's doing.

Finally, abruptly, a tall man in some manner of green uniform she couldn't identify, stepped forward. "Mother says you can't be here," he said, his voice oddly singsong and childlike. His hands were clasped behind his back, his stance perfect parade rest, and Sharley fought a very violent urge to rip his head off and stuff it up his ass.

"Your mother can go fuck herself," she said, shoving him out of the way. His surprisingly drunken stagger might have made her laugh, under other circumstances.

Nobody else moved, and that too irked her, rage twisting hot and ugly in her chest. The itch in her hand grew worse, and some part of her was dimly aware that Sauron had planned this – he'd wanted to erode her restraint, to see just what she would do.

The fucker was, at such a poor moment, testing her.

Her suspicion was confirmed when she turned, and found him smirking at her. _Smirking_.

A rather strange thing happened to her. Her borrowed wrath was a hot thing, molten in its intensity, but Sharley was a dead creature – heat was alien to her nature. This strange, foreign rage was a parasite, a disease, eroding not just her restraint, but her sense of _self_.

And the bastard was _smirking_ at her.

Had she still possessed her voices, she might not have done what she did next. She realized, with sudden, stark clarity, that preventing things like this was why they were _there_ – but they were not here now. They were not, but this towering, arrogant little shit _was_.

Perhaps, some dark, hazy, too-long-fettered part of her thought, he needed a lesson in why you did not fuck with other gods.

Sharley didn't smile, though part of her was tempted to. Instead she swung her sword off her back, drawing it, the blade glinting dully in the red-gold morning light.

There was just enough of _her_ remaining to keep her from drawing this out. They died instantly, without fuss or pain, dropping where they stood, bodies hitting the ground with a series of muted thumps. Their deaths were not her objective; she simply needed them out of her way.

Angmar was old – ancient, even – and had seen centuries of violence and bloodshed, of agony and misery and despair. In that, it rivaled parts of the Other.

It was perfect. And it made this so very, very easy.

Memories were as alien to this world as she was, but Angmar was almost tailor-made to create them. And she had more power to feed them than she suspected Sauron knew of.

Sharley knelt, placing her left hand on the ground. The rock was warm beneath it, too warm and dry for this autumn morning, and into it she poured the worst parts of her memory, of whatever passed for her fractured soul – the agony of her death, the horror and grief that her daughter had gone before her. Her even greater horror at her unnatural resurrection, at knowing true death would forever be denied her.

But the greatest, and worst, was the eternal torment of her very being – she was an abomination, a creature who profaned reality simply by existing. She'd been born with the born with the body of a human and the mind of a god, and her mind had had no choice but to shatter. It was the only thing that _could_ give.

The god, the Stranger, didn't understand pain, or anger, or hatred. _Sharley_ understood all of her them, far too well, and she gave them all to her fledgling creations.

The creeping, soul-shivering sense of dread told her the exact moment she succeeded. There was not a thing, living or dead, divine or mortal, immune to the effect of the Memories – even when the Memories could do them no harm. They were even more of an abomination than she was.

All of the bodies stayed where they were. A Memory's form was a matter of convenience – it was why they couldn't actually be destroyed. They were neither living nor dead; they were horrific hunger personified. What emerged from the alleys, from around the corners of the drab buildings, were human in shape only.

There came the soldiers, yes, and white-coated scientists, but also warriors, slaves in filthy, ragged clothing, and what must once have been the elite, decked out in all their finery. They might have passed for living men and women, if not for the flat, depthless hostility in their glassy eyes.

They halted when they found her, staring – waiting, though she didn't know what for.

No, she knew. They waited for her.

Good. She had orders for them.

* * *

Sauron realized, in very short order, that he had made something of a mistake.

Sharley rose, like some great unfurling nightmare, and turned to him. Her expression – or lack of one – would have chilled a lesser being.

"You wanted to see what I could do, Mairon," she said, and her voice was almost – almost – inflectionless. There was a very faint undercurrent of amusement, of slightly vicious satisfaction, and for possibly the first time in his life, Sauron found himself uneasy.

What had she just done? What had she just _made_? Never, in all his long existence, had he seen such creatures. He had certainly never _felt_ anything like them. They were not wraiths; instinct told him at once that they were worse.

Much worse.

Yes, this had been a rather grave tactical error. He had angered someone who was, in spite of her constant sorrow, her undeniable madness, her broken fëa, another god. A god whose full powers were as yet unknown to him. She would exact her vengeance, or would try to – she could not, even with her unholy army, truly hurt him, even now. Not so long as his Ring endured, wherever it actually was.

That did not, however, mean his immediate future was going to be pleasant.

And yet, he was curious. He had angered her, yes, but he was not her enemy – _that_ lay somewhere within these buildings, and part of him wondered what _it_ was making of this.

That, he supposed, they would find out.

"Yes," he said, "I did. And I still do."

* * *

Oh, Sauron. You do not yet know just how badly you fucked up. There is no way at all that this will end well, for absolutely anybody.

Guest: Oh, Von Ratched would have been evil no matter what. Some people are just born that way.

Title means "Making Memories" in Irish. As always, your reviews give me warmth and fuzzies.


	25. Streachailt

Guys, this chapter gave me so, _so_ much trouble. Sharley faced off with the Mother in _Plague of M_ , but I didn't want to just totally re-hash that scene. Tossing Sauron into the mix definitely helped, but re-working it was surprisingly difficult.

* * *

Dread washed through Galadriel in a sudden, shocking, icy wave. It scoured at her heart, shivered through her fëa, driving her to lean against the bedpost for support.

Celeborn was resting; if this horror did not wake him, let him remain so. Bad enough that she endure it – her, and every other waking Eldar.

She made her unsteady way to the sofa, staring into the fire, reaching for its warmth. Not since Helcaraxë had she known such cold, but it was a chill of the fëa, not the hröa.

Celeborn did not stir, so Galadriel rose as soon as she was able, and went to find Thranduil and Elrond. They might not know what this was, but she did.

She shivered as she walked, and the sheer _wrongness_ tore at her, whispering across her skin like the memory of poison fog. If she suffered this badly, it must be worse for the others, all who had not her strength.

She hadn't gone far before she found Lorna – or rather, Lorna found her. A very panicked Lorna, eyes wide with terror, who skidded to a halt on sight of her.

"Lady Galadriel – Christ, you too?" she said. "Something's – something happened, something's wrong with Thranduil, but you – what the hell happened?" She hurried over and wrapped Galadriel's arm around her shoulders, so that Galadriel might lean on her – somewhat pointless, given that their height disparity was nearly as great as hers and Thranduil's.

"Sharley," Galadriel said quietly. "I believe that Sharley happened."

Lorna winced. "Shite," she muttered. "Let's get you where you can sit down." Fortunately, the room occupied by the rulers of Lothlórien was not far from Thranduil's chambers.

It took longer to get there than it ought, but Galadriel's steps were steadier by then. Lorna led her to one of the chairs by the fire, and she was grateful to sit. The room was warm and dim, but it still couldn't touch the cold inside her.

A grey-faced Thranduil occupied the other chair, looking very much like he was about to be sick. He had a blanket wrapped around him, and Lorna draped one over her as well.

"I'll go get Lord Elrond," she said. "Nobody die while I'm gone."

Galadriel shut her eyes, still shivering. She said nothing, and neither did Thranduil. All she could do was try fruitlessly to get warm, to banish the formless horror gnawing at her heart.

Lorna returned with Elrond, Elladan, and Elrohir, and dragged over the chair from Thranduil's study. Elrond all but collapsed into it, while the twins sat on the hearth. There being nowhere else, she herself went and perched on Thranduil's lap. Unsurprisingly, he wrapped his arms around her on what seemed to be instinct.

"Sharley," Galadriel said, before anyone could ask. "Whatever that was, it was Sharley's doing. I have felt that power before, though not to that extent. I can only assume she found what she was looking for."

"Who is Sharley?" Elrond asked. He was every bit as grey as Thranduil, bordering on green.

"Someone who told me she could break the world, if she was not careful," Galadriel sighed. "After this, I believe her. I do not know what she did, but I fear we will find out."

"I…might have a guess," Lorna said slowly, curling into a tiny ball. "In the other timeline – I think, at some point, she made Memories."

The significance of that was lost on Galadriel, but Thranduil tensed. He gently took Lorna by the shoulders, and leaned her back so he could look at her. " _What?_ "

"Memories," she repeated. "They come from Sharley's world. In one'v my dreams, she made them. She'd lost her voices somehow, and the voices are her…anchor, sort'v thing. I don't know what else she could've done, to affect you all like this. It could be worse," she added. "At least she didn't break the universe."

"She could _do_ that?" Elladan asked.

"Sharley…isn't supposed to exist," Lorna said slowly. "The universe hates her _for_ existing. When she calls herself an abomination, she's not being melodramatic. I don't know the why or how'v it, but in the other timeline, she broke reality. I don't know if she fixed it or not – _someone_ did – but she smashed it."

"She told me that breaking things was the easy part," Galadriel sighed. "That the damage she could do, all unwilling – why she did not use her gifts. I would not like to think what might have driven her to use them now. Whatever she has found, it must be dire indeed."

"I hate to say this," Lorna said, "but it might be a good thing she's got Sauron with her. He could well be the only person who can at least slow her down. I mean, he's basically a god, right?"

Anyone else might have missed Elrond's slight shiver, but Galadriel didn't. "That term could perhaps be applied," he said. "His followers certainly believe so. If _he_ is the only means of stopping this Sharley…"

"Sauron his many things, but he is not stupid," Galadriel said. "He cannot rule the world if Sharley destroys it, and she cannot kill him so long as the Ring endures. If nothing else, they can fight one another to a standstill."

"Why does that not comfort me?" Elrohir muttered.

Lorna scrubbed a hand over her face. "Because you've more than half a brain in your head. Are the other Elves likely to be as bad off as you?"

"Yes," Elrond said grimly. "Some much worse."

She frowned. "All right, you lot. Stay here and rest. I'll go get everyone drunk. Where in bloody hell is Legolas?"

"Most likely the armory," Elladan said, pinching the bridge of his nose, "preparing for the hunt."

"All right, I'll drag him back here, too. Meanwhile, rest and get yourselves ossified." She slid off Thranduil's lap, pressed a kiss to his brow, and was gone.

* * *

Lorna really, really wished her dreams had been more specific. She knew Sharley could make Memories…and that was about it. How, or why, or what she did with them later, was a mystery.

Wherever Lorna went, she found Elves that looked like they'd been punched in the brain, either sitting on the floor or actually sprawled out. There was nothing she could do save help them to their feet and direct them to the wine. She didn't have any answers for them – none that she would give, anyway. She knew too little to tell them what she _did_ know.

She wasn't an Elf, and didn't have their heightened senses, but even _she_ had felt something…off. A wave of rage, coming from everywhere and nowhere, alien yet weirdly, impossibly familiar. In another world, another life, she'd dealt with this – she knew that, even if the details were unknown to her. But she was nowhere near Sharley, and even if she had been, they weren't the same people now that they would have been there.

She hoped like hell Sauron was up to the job. If he wasn't, she had an unfortunate feeling that nobody would be.

* * *

Memories, affronts to creation though they were, were _fascinating_.

They followed Sharley, and Sauron followed them, intrigued as he had not been in many a century.

They could, upon first sight, easily be mistaken for the living. In form they were unremarkable, save for their flat, dead, _hungry_ eyes, wells of malice so deep it impressed even him. Their movements were fluid as any Ainur, yet there was something unnatural to them – the sort that came from granting shape to something that should not have it.

Like Sharley, they ignored him utterly, perhaps sensing he could not give them whatever it was they sought. He was content with that, content to watch them hunt among the ugly grey buildings – to watch them tear at the corpses of the dead, fruitlessly chasing some lost spark of life.

What did Sharley plan to do with them? Did she have a plan at all? Watching her, he doubted it. This strange, cold creature, who somehow maintained and air of stillness even while moving, would not, he thought, bother. He had no idea what was going on in that cracked head of hers – and he suspected it was better that way.

It was certainly more entertaining.

In one of the buildings, a large metal door hung open, and he left the group to investigate. The light inside was bright and strangely even, issuing from long glass tubes on the ceiling – harsh light, and flat. It shone on counters and shelves of dull, smooth steel – too smooth for Edain work, yet without the craftsmanship of Elves or Dwarves.

They contained glassware – bowls, bottles, and jars – some empty, but others filled with liquid of various colors. He would give a great deal to know what they were.

The centerpiece of the room was a long glass tank, filled with some pink, viscous fluid. In it lay a man, tall and broad-shouldered, but paler than a corpse, each vein picked out in a black tracery beneath skin that was almost translucent.

Oh, how Sauron wished Sharley hadn't killed everyone. He would dearly love to know what this was. What _all_ of this was.

"Mother wants you to see this."

Sauron didn't jump, because he was _Sauron_ , but even he was tempted to recoil when he turned and saw a Memory directly behind him. It had been one of those who dwelt here, a golden-haired woman in a white coat.

"Does she?" he asked, though the thing's words might be cause for…concern. _Mother_ , it said, not _Sharley_.

Perhaps this would be more entertaining than he had thought.

He followed the thing back outdoors, back into the sunshine that seemed strangely dimmed, hazed by some force he could not identify.

The Memories waited, and with them, Sharley. She said nothing, but the expression in her strange eyes was arresting: they _burned_. Not with anger or hate – not with any emotion he could identify. "Stay with me," she said, and while it was part order, it was also part supplication. She was still there, somewhere – the real Sharley.

Sauron took orders from none, and heeded no supplication, but the word 'mother' was enough to make him nod. That the Memories would refer to her as such, when their foe wore the title as well…it bore watching.

She took his hand, and it was all he – even he – could do not to withdraw. She didn't speak, but she did – _something_. He knew he would get no explanation out of her, so he did not press. He would question her later, when those mismatched eyes were not so brimming with suppressed madness.

He followed her, beyond intrigued, mace at the ready. He watched Sharley tilt her head to the side, and if she'd been living, he would have sworn she was scenting the air, searching for her prey like an animal.

Sauron needed no such senses. He knew exactly where their quarry was, but he let Sharley lead, content to watch her and her abominable creations.

At least she didn't take long in her hunt. The building they found looked no different from any of the others, huge and featureless, giving no hint at all to what lay inside it. The doors, naturally, were locked, but that sword, that weapon he craved so very much, made short work of them. Sharley paused, letting the Memories pour in before her, though he wondered just what she intended for them to do. If they couldn't harm her or him, he doubted they could do anything to this Mother-creature.

It was hot in here, surprisingly so, and so dark that even an Elf would have had difficulty seeing, and the presence of so many Memories might well have suffocated a lesser creature.

They came to a four-way junction, and the Memories spread out, searching. The pair of them alone went on into the stifling, sweltering dark, until they reached a pair of blue metal doors.

And here, he saw, Sharley hesitated for the barest fraction of a second before she hacked down the doors, and froze. Sauron came up behind her, and looked in over her head.

This room was entirely out-of-place in such drab surroundings. The size of a great hall in some castle of Men, the floor, strangely was made of wood – mahogany so highly polished it reflected the candlelight like glass. There were hundreds of them, rendering the room a soft gold. There was a massive, padded chair, its fabric woven through with gilt threads that caught the light, and shone with it, and a very large desk, but no bed – the Mother, like Sharley, must not need sleep. And when Sauron saw her, he knew why.

This Mother, whoever she was, looked nothing at all like Sharley. She too appeared to be an Edain woman, but she was fair as any Eldar. Hair like black silk, so dark it sparked with blue highlights, clear olive skin far too smooth for any mortal, and huge, liquid dark eyes that, like Sharley's, did not wholly match. Cold eyes, cold and completely mad – but it was a madness quite familiar.

Sharley, it would seem, was not as alone as she thought. This creature was akin to her – every bit as much an abomination, imbued with the same strange energy, the energy he could only assume was Time. She was perfect – she was beyond perfect. He understood, now, why Sharley would believe he would be tempted to suborn her to his side.

And oh, he _was_ tempted. Yes, she radiated a madness so intense he could practically taste it, but she also exuded an immense amount of power. With her, he might even be able to destroy Sharley, sword or no sword.

But he looked at Sharley, tall and scarred, strong and broken at the same time. Her blue hair was a wild mess, her sleeveless white shirt travel-stained, her long fingers clenched around the hilt of her deceptively plain sword. Anger might simmer in the Mother's eyes, but in hers there was also a strange sort of grief. This strange, shattered creature, so beautiful in her pain…no. No, he would not move against her. Even yet, it seemed, there were some things he would not stoop to.

Sharley, who was visibly stunned. Her expression was one of terrible, devastating recognition – she _knew_ this person, or knew of her. "Akathisia," she whispered. "You're not –" She fell silent, her eyes darting over the woman, as though reading her. "You're – shit. You're her kid."

"I wondered if you would ever work that out," the Mother said, with the arch of one perfect eyebrow. Her eyes flicked to Sauron. "And who is your friend? I have never seen his like." There was blatant hunger in her odd eyes, a covetousness he understood all too well. She might be the same sort of creature as Sharley, but in mind she was much more like him. There was in her face a craving, a thirst for power, for dominion.

But her will, he knew already, was not like Sharley's. They were both mad, but Sharley fought her madness – fought it, and won, on a daily basis. She had a fortitude that this being lacked; it was the very fact of her shattered mind that made it impossible to control. The Mother, though – this demigod of such dark loveliness – would, he was sure, break so very beautifully.

He felt Sharley's eyes on him, but she made no move to intervene when he stepped forward. "I am Sauron, my lady," he said, "and you trespass in my world."

As he had suspected, the Mother's eyes narrowed, rage spiking behind them. She was at the mercy of her emotions; her volatility was so extreme that it was nearly a visible thing. "It is mine now," she said, a statement so patently absurd that he very nearly laughed. Power she held, but no more so than Sharley, and Sharley, in spite of her sword, in spite of her ability to manipulate Time, could not take Middle-Earth from him without destroying it.

"I think not," he said, with a dry arrogance he was sure would infuriate her further. He was certain that she was older than Sharley, possibly by a few centuries, for she moved with an assurance that only came with age, but he had walked in this universe for some twenty thousand years. To him, she was less than a child. "I do not suffer rivals. And I do not share power."

Surprisingly, she didn't fly into a rage. Instead she smiled, so cruel and so very mad. "I do not need your permission," she said, and held out a hand.

Something… _tore_ …at him, something raw and elemental and horrifyingly alien. He was incapable of pain, or he was certain it would have been agonizing – but it did no damage. Whatever she intended, it hadn't worked; if nothing else, the open shock in her expression told him that.

"Yeah, nope," Sharley said. "I already fucked him up once. His history isn't yours to screw with. You know, I was really, really hoping you'd be less…petty. I've already tried to tell that asshole why taking over the world is a dumb idea." She jerked her thumb at Sauron, who arched an eyebrow.

"You still have not convinced me," he said, his dry tone calculated to enrage the Mother. With all her strength, all her power, her mind was woefully unprotected…

Sharley's voice cut through his thoughts. "Sauron," she said, "don't. Don't even go there."

He fully looked at her. He did not want to hurt her, if hurt was even the proper term, but that mind was so very beguiling. "Do you really believe you can stop me, Sharley?"

The fact that his words, his threat, evinced no surprise in her – it troubled some deep, tiny part of him. She had been expecting betrayal, and that…bothered him. Even in the midst of all his hunger, it bothered him.

"Yes," she said, a strange weariness in her tone, "I can. You're tied to this world as long as the Ring endures – but there's nothing that says you're tied in this form." She shook her head. "I can't believe I'm saying this, but I'm sorry, Sauron. I really am."

* * *

As Sharley had expected, that baffling statement distracted Sauron and the Mother alike – the Mother at least ought to have known what she was doing, but her fury blinded her, and she had no warning when Sharley tore apart time all around them.

It shattered the building, dropping them trio into a crater heaped with rubble, burying them and the Memories alike. She clawed her way out, flinging stone aside with every ounce of strength she had, fury lending it a force she normally didn't possess. What she couldn't shift, the sword did, and when she reached the surface she surveyed the damage.

The wild lines of broken Time sent flickering ghost-images rising from the ruins – the walls whole one moment, and exploding the next. A human would have been bewildered by it, and even Sharley was having a hard time sorting it out, but she was so angry she didn't care.

Only the Memories remained solid, for even now they were entirely unaffected by Time. They rose like a horde of nightmares out of the wreckage, but it was some minutes before the Mother herself made an appearance.

She definitely wasn't impeccable now. Her silk dress was torn, her hair now tangled and filled with dust. She looked, in fact, more like Sharley herself.

And she was not happy. She grabbed at the Time around Sharley, wrenching it as hard as she could, and oh shit did that _hurt_. It was almost enough to drive her to her knees – yes, the Mother was strong, much stronger than she'd thought. While she might not have Sharley's level of power, she did have centuries of practice. There was a finesse to her temporal torture that Sharley could only dream of.

She did it again, but this time, ironically, the pain was so horrible that Sharley had to move or fall over. She darted aside, and tried desperately to force her poor broken mind to think, but the agony was too intense for anything like coherence. She lashed out at the Mother, trying to make up for her lack of subtlety with sheer strength. It worked, but not as she would have liked – her pain diminished, but it by no means vanished.

Sauron chose that moment to make an appearance – a coldly infuriated Sauron, though she had no idea if it was her or the Mother he was pissed at. It didn't particularly matter just now – he'd attack one of them, and she couldn't spare attention for him until he did. Unlike the Mother, he didn't look at all as though a building had just landed on him; his black hair was free of dust, his face clean of it. Out of the trio, he was the only one who really looked like a god, much good though it would do him.

She was entirely shocked when it was the Mother he turned on – not with his mace, but with what had to be his mind, head tilted slightly as his eyes bored into her. The smile he gave her had all the warmth and humanity of a shark, and Sharley watched him, struggling to recover enough to move without falling over.

He didn't move himself, but the Mother screamed – a high, harsh, keening cry of complete agony. Her face twisted into something downright ugly, and again she reached out, her fingers twisting like claws.

Sauron staggered, but he must have recovered, for the Mother screamed again – unfortunately, it wasn't enough to stop her. Time shuddered again, the ghost of the building that no longer was flickering around them – first solid, then shivering into various stages of its destruction, jerky and incoherent. It tore at Sharley and at Sauron, battling the lock she'd set on his Time – the only thing that would keep either her or the Mother from winding it further back, and possibly wiping him out of history.

The paradox that would cause would be catastrophic. Sauron was as old as the damn world. She'd managed to contain the paradox that would have come from knocking off so much of his personal Time, but wiping him out entirely might well break the universe, or at least all of Arda.

She went still, watching the Mother snarl at Sauron. Pain still jagged through her like shattered glass, but the part of her mind that remained the Stranger was remarkably clear. Even now it held itself separate from her rage, for it had never known anger – not anger, or grief, or anything. Did the Mother have a Stranger? Was there any part of her that remained detached?

Sharley suspected not. Had she, it would have taken over at Sharley's first attack. The Stranger didn't mock; it would kill without a word, with neither regret nor satisfaction. If this creature was what someone like them was without one, for the first time Sharley was grateful for hers. It whispered to her now, softly inside her head. It told her she had a third option. _A gift_ , it said. _The sword kills_ anything, _Sharley_.

For a moment she was bewildered, but the realization of what it meant was horrifying. Horrifying, yet fascinating, and she looked at the sword in her hand, ignoring the Mother. Even her pain was forgotten, driven out by the blade's unique brand of euphoria.

There wasn't any point in warning Sauron, because he couldn't understand what she meant to do anyway. She could almost hear Time howling as she rent it apart, the broken lines lashing wildly around all three of them. _That_ hurt, but her euphoria overrode it, and she cut again, and again, shredding everything within the bubble she had created. It flared like a sun gone nova, and soon enough _she_ was blind, her eyes seared by light no creature of any sort should witness.

But she laughed again, and for once in her existence her madness took over entirely. It was an aid to her now, and she embraced it, pouring it out with her anger, until nothing of herself remained. There wouldn't be enough of this stupid bitch left to bury.

* * *

Phew. It's not over for either Sharley or Sauron – or the Elves she screwed up so much.

Title means "This means War" in Irish. As ever, your reviews keep me going.


	26. Bás

I know this chapter took forever, but my daughter's off school for the holidays, so I haven't been writing as much. In which Sharley and Sauron are very busy, Lorna has no idea how to take care of thousands of sick Elves, and she and Thranduil meet Sharley's father.

* * *

Sauron could not see what Sharley saw, nor did he know what she was doing, but he could _feel_ it – a massive, shivering _wrongness_ scraped across his fëa, emanating through the blistering air. The heat only rose, its metallic tang coating the back of his throat, and he smiled. It had been long – far, _far_ too long – since he had faced a true opponent.

Granted, this Mother seemed intent on spending all her energy on Sharley, which could not be allowed. Her mind still called to him, and while he could not bring himself to betray Sharley utterly, he was not one to resist temptation.

 _Sauron had no need to touch someone, if he wished to enter their mind. While this creature's offered a manner of resistance, it was not nearly enough._

 _Her inner landscape seemed strangely familiar, though he was certain he had never seen it before: a forest of fir trees, dying beneath a dull red sky. Here too the air was hot and metallic, but there was something else, some spark of life alien to Middle-Earth._

 _The Mother looked upon it with scorn. In her mind – her smooth, unbroken mind – the colors were washed out and faded. It was a place she had once lived, to which she had no attachment._

 _He sought her memories, lightning-fast, and found them tiresomely dull. She was the beautiful daughter of the beautiful woman who had turned this world, the Other, into this wasteland, who had done nothing of note herself. She brooded in the Elsewhere for centuries, until she summoned these mortals and began twisting them. Tedious._

 _Tedious, and arrogant, almost to the point of complete stupidity. She, mere centuries old, who had fought nary a single battle, thought herself capable of taking over Middle-Earth? Oh, what she had done to the mortals was impressive its creativity, but it took far more than that to conquer anything, let alone a continent._

 _It irked him, that such an upstart should reach so far. Oh yes, power she had in plenty, but power was not enough. Winning took more than strength and desire, and she did not possess the cunning necessary to it._

 _He_ could _use her, all too easily, and even now it was tempting – but there would be no keeping Sharley from killing her, and she truly was acting well above her station. Destroying her would be nearly as amusing as using her. Even watching her struggle to fight him was amusing, though he was already tiring of it._

 _Of all the Maiar, he had always been the most intrigued by mental manipulation, and he had dabbled in more than enough over the last millennia. He attacked now not with a hammer, but with the finest of razors, slicing at her thoughts, her memories, her very sense of self, eroding the core of her being._

 _Only now did she truly try to fight him, but that her efforts were a disappointment was no surprise – she was fighting a battle on two fronts._

 _He wondered…he could not see Time, not as Sharley did, but he was in the mind of one who could. How had she seen, when once she lived here? How did she control her power now?_

 _Sauron was about to find out._

* * *

Sharley didn't realize anything was up with the Mother, but the Stranger, detached as it was from her pain and rage, did. And it explained why Sauron appeared to be just standing around.

The Mother's finesse was wavering, her huge, liquid eyes turned to mismatched pools of shock and horror. Sauron was in her head, and Sharley would bet he was having a field day.

Even as she raised her sword again, she shuddered. She'd read his history – she knew what he could do to a person's mind, even if it had failed with her. Had she been whole – had she not been born with her mind in pieces – he could have destroyed her, too. He would destroy the Mother, if given the chance, but he would not do it quickly. 'Mercy' was not a word he understood.

Sharley managed a step forward, and agony jagged through her. Her body wasn't capable of true pain, but whatever passed for her soul was, and it tor eat her, slicing and rending much like the Memories that had killed her.

The Mother screamed – a high, piercing, horrible sound, her face stripped of arrogance and filled with terror. Sharley couldn't summon much sympathy, despite knowing Sauron was raising hell in her head.

Another step, and another, but she paused when blood dripped from the Mother's nose. Her kind were _incredibly_ difficult to wound – just what was Sauron doing in there? The sheer terror on the Mother's face made Sharley uneasy, even through the force of her anger. She did not want Sauron for an enemy – and once this was over, he would become one, sooner or later.

Later. He was going to draw this out, and Sharley – Sharley didn't have it in her to torture someone, no matter how much they might deserve it. If the Mother could do what she did, she was an abomination herself, and if she was the same manner of abomination as Sharley, she had to be at least slightly mad herself. Yes, she deserved her suffering, but that didn't mean Sharley was going to make her endure it.

Step. Step. Agony, ever worse. The Mother didn't attack, didn't even try to fend her off when she brought the sword around, neatly cleaving the creature's head off in one stroke.

The body fell with an anticlimactic _thud_ , blood as red as any human's spraying onto the dusty ground. It sprayed on Sharley, too, hot and coppery, sending a memory of nausea ghosting through her. The wild threads of tortured Time still lashed around her, but Sharley scarcely felt them. She stared at the corpse, its life snuffed out so abruptly, a pit opening somewhere inside her.

Her eyes raised to Sauron, and found his pale face twisted with fury. She'd deprived him of his toy, cut off his fun, but she couldn't bring herself to care.

This person, this Mother, monstrous a creature though she had been, was like Sharley. She was the only other, and now she was dead, her blood smeared crimson on the dull blade of Azarael's sword.

Sharley had killed orcs, and spiders, and the twisted creatures that had once been human. Not until today had she killed actual _people._ Her detachment, the thing she'd stolen from the Stranger, deserted her now. Her soul was like a raw nerve, uncaring of Sauron's anger.

Within her mind, the Stranger stirred. Under any other circumstances, she would fight it, but just now she welcomed the relief of its ascendance. Let it deal with this. It didn't know how to feel.

* * *

Sauron was not at all pleased at the sudden loss of his plaything. In his wrath he could easily have taken it out on Sharley, but Sharley…changed.

Not physically. She had been different, yes, in fëa if not hröa, when she made the Memories, but there had still been a trace of self, of _Sharley_. What faced him now was pure Stranger, impassive and silent, seemingly unaware of the blood on Sharley's arms and face.

It raised her free hand, staring at it while the fingers flexed, eyes tracing it with a detached form of curiosity.

He realized, rather abruptly, that of the pair, it was the most dangerous. There was little that Sharley wanted, but the Stranger had no concept of the term. Its mind was foreign, inscrutable – and it should not be stirring now. Not when all was over.

Unless it wasn't over.

The Stranger looked at him through Sharley's eyes – Sharley might be so very young, but _it_ was ancient, and that odd, mismatched gaze sucked at his fëa. "Come," it said – to him, to the horde of Memories that lurked around the edges of the crater. "We must go."

"Go where?" Sauron asked, his wrath overtaken by both curiosity and confusion.

"Elsewhere," it said, its tone too flat to be Sharley's. "She will not have had her entire force here. Somewhere, there will be a Door."

"And what of Sharley?" he found himself asking, and wondered why he did.

"She sleeps, for now," the Stranger said. "We cannot help her. We do not understand her grief."

That was true enough, and yet… "How long will she sleep? How long will you remain in control?" If the Stranger slipped while they were in the midst of something dire – if the broken wreck of Sharley's mind returned – that could be a rather large problem.

"I do not know," it said. "She does not fight me now. Should she wake, fight she will, on instinct if nothing else. She fears what I will do, with control of this body."

Sauron arched an eyebrow. "Should she?"

"Not as much as she should fear what _she_ would do."

* * *

Lorna got Legolas up to her and Thranduil's room, and then she and Ratiri were driven to distraction taking care of the rest of the Elves. Katje was too sick, and of course Von Ratched wasn't to be thought of.

They couldn't just keep getting everyone drunk, but Lorna didn't know what else to do. She'd spent most of her life crawling into a bottle whenever things got rough. Even Ratiri didn't seem to have any better ideas.

Marty and Sméagol tried to help, but the poor little girl was far too distracted to do much, so Lorna ordered them both to dog her heels. Marty, unfortunately, knew that whatever had happened was her mother's doing.

"Mama can be scary," she said, her tiny, icy hand held firmly in Lorna's. "She's not like Granddad – she's not like that _all_ the time – but something made her mad. I don't know why it's made everybody here sick, though."

"Elves can feel things we can't," Lorna said, lifting the girl into her arms. They were headed to the kitchen to check on the dwindling wine supply, the vast halls eerily quiet around them. "I just wish I knew how long they'll be like this. The four'v us can't do it by ourselves." She was always careful to include Sméagol in their number, so he would feel useful, even if he _did_ give her the creeps. He seemed harmless enough right now, but she didn't need to read his mind to be quite certain that wasn't his default state. Fortunately, Marty seemed to have a handle on him, because Lorna couldn't deal with one more thing on her plate. If something decided to attack now, they were fucked.

Marty and Sméagol had done some reconnaissance in the forest, and it was so quiet she was uneasy. That was probably sheer paranoia, but paranoia had kept her alive on the streets of Dublin for six years. She knew better than to disregard it.

For now, alcohol, and a shitload of sandwiches. Living at Bard's last winter had taught her not to try cooking on a woodstove, so she made sandwiches until there was no more bread to be had, and then tried to make her own. The result was ugly, but edible, and she set Marty to slicing it. She didn't want to let Sméagol anywhere near a knife, so she had him scale the shelves to find her crocks of jam and butter.

"We need more meat."

Lorna nearly humped out of her skin, dropping a heavy crock of butter on her foot. The crock didn't break, but she wasn't sure the same could be said for her toes. " _Bell_ , Thranduil," she growled, wincing.

Her poor husband still looked ill, though marginally better. Dark smudges lurked beneath his eyes, but his skin was ashy rather than green. Sharley had better have had a damn good reason for doing whatever it was she'd done, given the state it left him in. "I brought you something," he said, drawing her crown from one of the pockets in his voluminous silver robe.

"Why?" she asked, ushering him to a bench. His movements were almost human, lacking their usual Elven grace.

"To reassure people," he said, setting it on her head even as he sat. "I wish I knew what she has done. I wish I knew when we would recover."

"You and me both," she sighed, pressing a kiss to his forehead before returning to her sandwiches. "I know she can't take Thorvald out for us, but maybe she'll weaken him. She's got that bloody sword."

"I do not see why she cannot kill him with it, if it supposedly kills anything," Thranduil said, not a little irritably.

"She could," Marty said, dragging over a stool, "but she won't. Granddad says sometimes the price is too high for the sword."

"What in hell does _that_ mean?" Lorna asked, looking down at her small, pallid face.

"It means sometimes bad things would happen," the little girl said solemnly. "Granddad will explain."

A sliver of ice worked its way into Lorna's gut. "Will?" she asked.

"He's here," Mary said, blithely slapping huckleberry jam onto a slightly misshapen slice of bread. "He's in the forest. He said he a few things to do first, but he oughtta show up any time now."

Lorna carefully set down her knife. "Marty," she said, "your grandfather is Death, and he is about to show up in a place I'm technically queen of. Don't you think you should've told me that already?"

Marty's death-filmed eyes blinked at her. "No?" she offered uncertainly. "You woulda freaked out, and you don't have to. He knows Mama did something crazy, and he's here to fix it."

That ought to sound like a wonderful idea, except for the part where he was _death incarnate_. "How long do we have before he turns up on the doorstep?"

Marty shrugged. "Dunno. Ten minutes? I can't see as good as Mama."

Lorna cast a helpless glance at Thranduil. Crown or not, she hardly cut a queenly figure in her plain green tunic. He could look regal in a paper bag, but he was still awfully bloody wan. They were hardly in any shape to receive visitors, but especially not the god of bloody _Death_.

Thranduil rose, automatically switched into what she thought of as King Mode. Wan or not, under-dressed or not, there was no mistaking him for anything but royalty. He could greet even Death with dignity and aplomb – which was a damn good thing, since she knew she could do neither. He'd faced the concept so many times that meeting the personification might not seem so terrible.

"Come, Dilthen Ettelëa," he said, offering her his arm. "We have a guest to meet."

Lorna took, it, trying – and failing – to calm the butterflies currently throwing a rave in her gut. It was just as well she hadn't had much breakfast, or she'd be sicking it up right now.

Having him beside her helped, as they ascended the stairs. He knew what he was doing; while she _ought_ to say something to their…guest…she wouldn't _have_ to. Thranduil could be incredibly rude, but he could also be diplomatic, when he thought something worth the effort.

She straightened her spine, drawing herself up to what passed for her full height. She'd seen a picture on the internet that said the best way to walk like a queen was to stand up straight, draw a deep breath, and think 'murder' while you walked, but given the nature of their guest, that was probably less than appropriate. At least she'd brushed her hair earlier.

The silence of the halls somehow managed to seem even more eerie, and the two gate-guards sat on the floor. They were a formality anyway, given that they weren't in any condition to fight anything off – especially not with the cups of hot wine each one clutched.

Thranduil looked down at her, arching an eyebrow, and she shrugged.

"I didn't have any better ideas," she said. Getting everyone drunk was a stopgap measure, but at least it worked for now. It was better than nothing.

Little Marty came scurrying up behind them, Sméagol in tow, perfectly unconcerned. At least _someone_ was.

Lorna shifted uneasily from foot to foot, jittery, and still jumped when a heavy knock resounded through the massive gates.

The guards hesitated a moment before opening them, looking to Thranduil for confirmation. Lorna did, too, and was actually reassured by the aloof, icy mask he wore. She could see through it, even if no one else was likely to.

The gates swung soundlessly open, admitting the golden afternoon sunshine – and with it, someone who didn't fit at all. Who couldn't have fit in anywhere.

He was actually a touch taller than Thranduil, broad-shouldered, every bit as pale as his daughter, swathed head to foot in black. His hair was long, a dark reddish-brown gathered low at the nape of his neck, but his eyes were what drew her attention: they were the same color and brightness of glowing coals. He somehow managed to come off even more intimidating than Thranduil – for all of five seconds. His forbidding air was rather dispelled when Marty threw herself at him, hugging his legs.

"Hi, Granddad," she said.

"I hope you have not burned anything down while your mother is away," he said, picking her up. His voice was deep, his accent like nothing Lorna could place.

"That was _one time_ ," Marty protested.

"Four times," he said dryly. "Five, if you count what happened on your grandmother's ship."

"That wasn't just me."

"I am quite sure it was not." Those unholy eyes raised to Thranduil and Lorna, flicking between the two. "I apologize for my daughter," he said, "yet what she has done might well prove necessary. She is leaving your world for a time, so I must come in her stead."

"How much do you know of…recent events?" Thranduil asked, still every inch a king, thank God. Lorna seemed to have entirely lost her tongue.

"Too much," their visitor said. "My name is Azarael. I offer you aid, but first I must ask a boon of Lady Galadriel. She is, I think, the only one strong enough to bear it."

"She's…ill," Lorna managed, her voice not quite steady. "All the Elves are."

"It is not illness," Azarael said, looking down at her. "It is a weariness, and it will pass, given time. What you have, however, is an illness. Though I puzzle that it is not more severe."

She pointed at Thranduil. "I've got him to thank for that," she said. "He gave me something he called a soul-anchor. We're pretty sure it's why I'm not as bad off as the others."

Azarael's eyes turned to Thranduil, with a curiosity Lorna wasn't sure she liked. Thranduil tensed, very minutely, though his face remained impassive. "I have never seen one such as you," Azarael said. "Barring violence, you truly might live forever. What manner of deity would create such a creature?"

"One who hates humans enough to dump all the disadvantages Elves should have had on us," she grumbled, unable to help it. Her nerves were still misfiring, badly enough that it was all she could do not to shiver. She didn't wonder why the two gate-guards looked ready to be sick. Perhaps the worst of it was that she didn't think Azarael was _trying_ to be intimidating, or that he was even necessarily aware of just how intimidating he actually as. Not even holding an adorable zombie child could truly dispel it. His eyes – it wasn't just that they were terrifying. They were hauntingly, worryingly familiar.

"A peculiar world," he observed. "Bring me to Galadriel, and to the other humans. You have your own quest to complete, and you cannot do it as you are."

"What'll you do, while we're gone?" she asked.

"There are those I must speak with," he said, not a little grimly. "That is my problem, not yours. Meanwhile, I will see to your people, and I must meet with Lady Galadriel."

Lorna wasn't sure what to make of any of it, so she didn't try. She just fought the urge to squeeze Thranduil's hand as they led Azarael deeper into the halls.

* * *

Thranduil was not at a loss, because he wouldn't allow it of himself, but he was near enough.

If this Azarael was indeed Sharley's father – and there was a strong resemblance – it explained a great deal about her. Thranduil really didn't want him _here_ – if Sharley was equal in power to Sauron, her father could be as one of the Valar. Great power only attracted great trouble.

He doubted Lorna could sense the full scope of it, but it was daunting – and yet, for the avatar of Death, there was a peculiar sense of half-life about him. Yes, he radiated cold; yes, he shared Sharley's metallic-lightning scent, and yet he seemed more alive than she did.

Galadriel would not be pleased to see him, but Thranduil did not think he would harm her. Unsettling though he was, he exuded no sense of malice. The fact that he carried Marty so easily certainly helped; he might be Death incarnate, Eru only knew how old and powerful, but he was also grandfather to a tiny undead child – a child who was currently braiding his hair, chattering away in an unknown language. To call it dissonant was a vast understatement.

Lorna did not seem nearly so appeased – she was visibly struggling for equanimity, her arm unsteady where it touched Thranduil's. Not since his mind-rape of her a year ago had he seen her so disturbed, and while the why of it was obvious, still he wondered. It wasn't just unease – there was surprise as well.

 _I've seen him before_ , she sent him. _I'm sure'v it. The bus – the one I crashed into the Liffey. I saw those eyes then._

Ice wormed its way into Thranduil's spine. She'd shared the memory with him, months ago – the figure had been indistinct, but the eyes were indeed the same.

And yet, neither Lorna nor her companions had actually died, so why had Azarael been there? Why had he ventured outside the Other? Thranduil wasn't sure he wanted to know, but he was quite certain he was going to find out.

* * *

Remember how I said, all the way back in chapter forty-five of _Ettelëa_ , that Lorna met Sharley's father and didn't know it? Yeah, she did. And you'll find out why soon enough.

Title means "Death" in Irish. As ever, your reviews give me life and hope.


	27. Naofa Cac

In which Galadriel is given a temporary 'gift', Ratiri and Elrond properly meet, and Azarael does Lorna a huge favor (and drops a verbal bomb on her and Thranduil). This is a somewhat short chapter, but you'll see why at the end of it.

* * *

Galadriel was not pleased by what – who – Thranduil and Lorna brought her. While she no longer felt ill, she was profoundly weary, and being faced with the creature who was Sharley's father was the last thing she needed.

Celeborn and Elrond both flanked her, though what they thought they could do, she did not know. She sensed no malice from this Azarael; if anything, he seemed to be the most neutral being she had ever met, save where his granddaughter was concerned.

"I must ask a boon of you, Lady Galadriel," he said. "I have in my keeping something that I cannot hold for long without risk to them – I would have you hold them, until they may be returned."

"And what are they?" she asked.

"My daughter's voices. They have been cut off from her, and it is not wise to let them roam free," he said.

It was a rather strange request, but she could see why he had come to her. Even with what little she had heard from Sharley's mind, she might well be the only one with the mental fortitude to deal with all four. "If you must," she said. While she doubted she would enjoy this, it would at least prove distracting.

When Azarael touched her face, she was unsurprised to find his hand was frigid – but unlike Sharley, there was nothing horrifying in it. Death, however unwelcome to most, was a natural thing, something which caught up even to many of the Eldar in this world. There was nothing at all natural about poor Sharley.

Beside her, both Celeborn and Elrond tensed. Celeborn spoke no English, and Elrond's mastery was far from complete. They would not understand what Azarael was doing.

"It is fine," she said in Sindarin. "I am merely safekeeping something for a time."

 _"Hi."_

In spite of everything, the little voice made her tense. It was a child, a girl, and a very young one at that.

 _"We are guests here,"_ another said – also female, but an adult. _"I will make Kurt behave."_

 _"Good luck with that,"_ snorted a third, this one male.

 _"I can behave when I feel like it,"_ said the fourth – also male, deep and irritated.

How very _strange_ this was. Galadriel had heard many, many minds in her life; she knew what it was to her another's voice in her head. These, however, were outside entities, heard physically, circling her unseen.

"You can, I think, aid us," she said. "How far from me can you venture?"

 _"We can't know yet,"_ the woman said. _"We can go a few miles from Sharley, but it's different with every person."_

"You have been attached to others?" Galadriel asked, ignoring the strange looks she received.

 _"Yeah,"_ the little girl said. _"Before Sharley was born. We're sorta supposed to be guardians, even if we kinda suck at it."_

In spite of everything – of the loss and the grief, the weariness and uncertainty – Galadriel was completely fascinated. For once, this was an alien thing that was not a nightmare. She wanted to know everything there was to know about these beings, and hoped there would be time to discover it all.

* * *

They moved to the lesser council chamber, where there were actually enough seats. Marty and Sméagol built up the fire, bickering all the while, and Celeborn and Elrond remained firmly on the other side of Galadriel.

Thranduil sat with Lorna to his right and Legolas to his left, with a twin on either side, joined by a very pale Arwen. Only Azarael seemed unperturbed, but then, he would. Thranduil doubted anything could faze _Death._

"You must understand that there is little I may do directly," he said, pacing before the fire. "The risk to your world would be too great. I have my own task here, largely unrelated to yours, but I will do what I safely can to aid you. I puzzle as to why all not from your world have come here at all."

"We wonder the same thing," Elrond said.

"So far as we know, it began with Lorna," Thranduil put in. "Three more followed, some five months later, and the fifth at some point after that. Then came Thorvald, and Sharley, and Marty."

"And all the zombies," Lorna muttered.

"I spoke to one of the deities of their world," he went on. "Even she did not know why or how they came to be here, but according to Sharley, they have greatly upset the course of history. The most even creature left in this world now walks with her."

Azarael actually arched an eyebrow. "I know," he said. "He is, on the whole, not enjoying himself. There are few in any world who can long endure her presence."

 _That_ Thranduil could well believe. "Will you take her with you, when all is over?"

Azarael sighed. "I have no choice. Until then, I will do what I can to aid your humans. I cannot cure them, but I can halt the progression of the malady until my counterpart arrives."

Lorna sighed. "Do we have to take Von Ratched with us, when we go after Thorvald? I'm the one that's meant to kill the bastard, not him. I know I would've been alone without him in the other timeline, but I'm _not_ alone here. And I'd rather not travel with someone I didn't trust not to slit my throat as soon as everything was over."

"I am the wrong person to ask," Azarael said. "I do not see Time as my daughter does. I do not know what might happen."

"He has to stay here," Marty said. She'd found the fireplace poker, and was happily jabbing away at the flaming logs. "Lady Galadriel knows why, except she shouldn't. And Lady, you can't tell anybody," she added, straightening and looking at the lady in question. "Paradox."

"I hate that word," Azarael said, a surprising tinge of frustration in his voice. "I truly do. Marty, are you certain?"

She gave him a look that could only be described as deadpan. "You know what Mama would say about certainty," she said. "But seriously, Lady. Paradox. Those are bad. Really, _really_ bad."

"What, exactly, is a paradox?" Thranduil asked.

"What you get if you poorly manipulate Time," Azarael said. "And why Sharley so rarely speaks of her gift. If you are meant to do something and do not do it, it results in a paradox. What should have happened has not, rendering all that would have resulted from it invalid. A large enough paradox could shatter the world."

"Mama doesn't know what _will_ happen," Marty added. "She just knows all the things that _could_ , which is why she mostly just gives nudges. She doesn't want to break everything, and neither do I."

"But you're saying Von Ratched has to stay here?" Lorna said, hope rising in her eyes. "He'll not go after Thorvald, too?"

"He can't," Marty affirmed. "There's stuff he has to do here."

Lorna let out an audible sigh of relief, leaning heavily against the back of her chair. "Thank bloody _God_ ," she said. "I've had a few dreams'v what traveling with him would've been like. No thank you."

Thranduil could only agree. However useful Von Ratched might be, they would never be able to trust him. "We will not tell him about this…anchoring," he said. "I would much prefer he remain occupied in search of a cure."

"That is only wise," Galadriel said. "He is too intelligent for his own good. I do not like to think what he might do, should he be bored."

Thranduil didn't, either. Much as he didn't want to say this, he had to anyway. "We must anchor Lorna now. If we are to go after Thorvald, we had best do it as soon as possible."

"Oh, joy," Lorna grumbled.

* * *

Ratiri was exhausted, but every time he closed his eyes, nightmares found him. Sometimes they were of the battle, the nauseating things he'd witnessed; sometimes they were lingering vestiges of the Institute. The worst of them, strangely, involved these halls – he would wake and find that everyone had disappeared but him, leaving him to wander in creepy, endless silence, hunting fruitlessly for the gates.

He had spent so much time in Dale that being underground, even in such vast, airy caverns, felt wrong. He missed sunlight, the bite of autumn in the air. He did _not_ miss what passed for Dale's sewage system, but he'd spent enough time around other humans that being among Elves again was surprisingly difficult.

The complexity of his task wasn't helping. There was nowhere to even start; he'd been brewing concoctions with the healers, in the hope that one of them might stick. Until Von Ratched had completed actual tools, Ratiri was essentially concocting potions to keep himself busy, and hoping that one of them might work.

Occasionally, Galasríniel would help him, but he preferred to be left alone, mashing herbs into pastes, or grinding them to brew like tea. Katje, his sole test subject, bore his various creations with what stoicism she could, but she didn't seem surprised when they did nothing. While he couldn't sleep, she slept almost all the time.

Until Lord Elrond arrived.

Of course Ratiri had known exactly who he was, even on first sight, because really, there was no way he could be anyone else. He'd always felt a kind of affinity for Elrond, especially once he'd grown up to be a doctor. There were so very many questions he wished he could ask the tall Elf, but his Westron was still only fair to middling, and from what he had heard through the grapevine, Elrond's English was no better.

Still, those calm grey eyes were curious as they took in Ratiri's workspace – six separate mortar-and-pestle sets laid out on the long wooden counter, along with myriad glass bottles and tidy bundles of herbs. "What are you doing?" he asked in Westron.

"I do not really know," Ratiri sighed. "Keeping busy, because I do not know what else to do. My friends are sick, and I do not have the tools to make them well."

"You will not need them," Elrond said. "There is one here who can stem your malady, for now."

Ratiri blinked. "What?" He couldn't imagine who – or what – might be capable of that, but if it was true, he might just weep with relief. And then, perhaps, he could finally sleep.

"This can be halted," Elrond said, "though not yet cured."

At this point, Ratiri would take what he could get. "I have a friend – Katje. She is more sick than I am. She cannot walk far."

"I am certain we can bring Azarael to her," Elrond said. "Come with me. Lorna is with him now, but then he will see to you."

Ratiri didn't think he'd ever felt so thankful in his life.

* * *

Having been through one anchoring already, Lorna wasn't looking forward to this at all. While it almost certainly wasn't the same thing, she highly doubted it would be any fun.

She, Thranduil, and Azarael had relocated to their room, so she wouldn't have to move to reach her own bed. Marty had wanted to come, too, but Azarael shooed her off, stating that this was not something she needed to witness.

Because _that_ was heartening.

He directed Lorna to sit on the bed, with Thranduil beside her, holding her hand. "This will be less…unpleasant…if you are with her," he said, which did nothing at all for her nerves. Her hands were so cold that Thranduil's skin actually felt warm against hers.

Lorna wasn't afraid of pain, but she didn't exactly enjoy it, either, and when Thranduil had done something like this, it had hurt worse than anything she'd ever known in her life, up to and including _childbirth_. She couldn't help the anxiety that coiled in her gut, because she was neither stupid nor insane.

Azarael knelt before her, so bloody tall that even with her seated on the bed, they were eye to eye. His expression was entirely impassive, but holy Christ were his eyes even worse up close. "You will find this cold," he said, "but the pain will not last long."

She wanted to ask how he knew that, but didn't quite dare. His hand, when he laid it on her sternum, was indeed frigid, sending cold radiating all through her in jagged, uneven ways.

It didn't seem so bad at first, so when the pain hit her, it came out of nowhere, like a spike of ice driven into her heart. She didn't scream, but only because the shock of it drove the breath from her lungs, leaving her dizzy and lightheaded. It wasn't as bad as when Thranduil had done it, yet it was also somehow worse, for this felt beyond unnatural, so alien and so _wrong_ that she was nearly sick.

Just when she thought she could bear it no longer, it stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The cold receded as soon a Azarael removed his hand, but a faint patch of chill lingered over her heart.

The relief was so immense she nearly collapsed with it. "It's over?" she asked, surprised at the hoarseness in her voice.

"It is," Azarael said, rising. "You will not sicken. I now hold your life and your soul – you will not die unless I will it."

That…sounded really bloody convenient. She wondered what the catch was.

"You can, however, be wounded. And any wounds you sustain will affect you, when I return the line of your life."

Lorna sighed. _There_ was the catch. Oh well – it wasn't like she'd planned on getting stabbed anyway.

"And how long," Thranduil said, squeezing her hand, "can you hold it thus?"

"As long as I wish," Azarael said.

She knew exactly why Thranduil was asking – so long as Azarael had a grip on her life, it took care of that pesky 'mortality' problem. Except…not really. It sure as hell sounded like she'd be totally unable to heal in this state. If she got stabbed in the face, she'd _stay_ stabbed in the face. It wasn't a true solution, and Lorna was beginning to wonder if they would ever find one.

Those ember-bright eyes flicked from her to Thranduil, and back again. "I could grant you immortality, child, but I will not," he said. "You would hate me for it, in the end – if it did not drive you mad. Your husband can still be killed, even if he will suffer neither age nor disease. Were he to die, you would be forever parted. I would not do that even to one I loathed."

His gaze returned to Thranduil. "I can, however, make _you_ mortal."

* * *

Oh SNAP!

As much as Thranduil would love to give Lorna immortality, there's the inescapable fact that he's still married to his first wife – Legolas was right when he said that Lorna's mortality was the only reason the Valar hadn't bitch-slapped Thranduil into the ground. And this is not going to be as easy a decision as he might think.

Title means "Holy shit" in Irish. As ever, your reviews fill me with glee – I'd love to hear what you think of this little development.


	28. Corraí

This is a bit of a shorter chapter, because I'm working up to both Sharley and Sauron's time in the Elsewhere, and Lorna and Thranduil heading out to deal with Thorvald. (Which is going to leave poor Legolas in charge of the Woodland Realm, with _Death_ as a houseguest. Poor bastard.)

In which Lorna and Thranduil thrash things out (and Lorna wants to murder Azarael), Katje's surprised to find she's not actually going to die (and still wishes she could get laid) and Galadriel attempts to adjust to Sharley's voices (and has an illuminating conversation with Sinsemilla).

* * *

"No," Lorna said immediately, glowering at Azarael. Death or not, she half wanted to choke him for giving Thranduil that particular idea.

"No?" Thranduil echoed, looking down at her. She didn't like the spark of anger in his pale eyes, the statue-still mask of his expression.

"Legolas is immortal," she said, with all the firmness she could muster. "Our twins could well choose to be immortal. You do not get to die and leave them. Besides, you'd hate mortality." She knew him well enough to have a pretty good idea of what he'd be like once he started to age – he'd resent the shit out of everyone and everything, including her and himself.

Her eyes flicked back to Azarael. "Don't you dare," she said, and his faintly puzzled expression only pissed her off even worse. "I mean it, Azarael. I will so sic your daughter on you if you do." She knew, from her hazy memories of the other timeline, that the two of them didn't exactly get along very well, and it was partly because he had somehow mucked around with her own mortality.

"Lorna," Thranduil said, a slight edge to his voice, "that is not your decision."

"Are you really going to ditch your son, Thranduil?" she asked, glaring up at him, wishing she could shake some sense into him. "Yeah, the twins have the option of choosing mortality, but Legolas doesn't."

"He could," Azarael put in mildly, "if he chose. I can easily do the same for him."

Her glare turned on him. "Azarael," she said witheringly, " _stop helping me_." While she didn't know Legolas very well, she was quite sure that mortality wouldn't appeal to him. He might choose it, if only to follow his father, but it would be the lesser of two evils, rather than something he wanted. Again, resentment. A shitload of it. Thanks, but no thanks.

"Thranduil," she said, touching his arm, "this is me being serious. With my serious face. _This is not the answer_. We'll find one, sure, but this isn't it. We've got more than just ourselves to think about here."

In truth, she wasn't _that_ afraid of what he'd decide, because, love her though he did, he wasn't really going to leave Legolas. Surely not.

Thranduil slid his fingers into her hair, and the sorrow in his eyes actually made her draw a breath of relief. He might be desperate for some way around her mortality, but he wasn't stupid, nor was he selfish enough to throw away all else. "I will not lose you," he said, with a finality she had learned long ago not to question.

"No, you won't," she said, "but we'll figure something else out. If I wake up one morning and find you're a human, I'll kill you _and_ Azarael," she said, glaring at the creature in question. "I know your sword kills anything, and in this case, I'm sure Sharley would help." She was pretty sure she wasn't kidding, either. A mortal Thranduil would be a disaster for far too many people – including himself.

She hated the thought, but maybe they were just destined to be split after death. Maybe this Eru really was such an asshole that there was no way a couple of two different species could stay together without some terrible consequence. If that was indeed the case, fuck him. Any deity who could be that cruel wasn't worth believing in. They'd just have to find another one, some other alien creature who could help them out in ways Azarael couldn't (or wouldn't).

"Why can't you just make us both truly immortal?" she asked, glowering at him.

"Because I have not the power to do that to an Elf," he said. "I come from your world, Lorna – a land without Elves. There are several things I can do to them, but that is not among them."

"Well, can _somebody_?" she demanded, the words nearly a snarl. Christ did she wish he'd never turned up.

Azarael paused, and she wondered if that was a good thing, or a really terrible one. "I do not yet know," he said. "You do not know what you ask, Lorna. I learned the hard way that mortals do not take well to true immortality. Even my daughter, who, though born mortal, is half divine, will never thank me for what I did to her."

Lorna, at least at the moment, didn't care if it drove her insane. She doubted it would anyway; Thranduil had too firm a hold on her for her mind to wander off somewhere else, and if it was the only way she could keep him, she'd do it in a damn heartbeat. Legolas and their children would never lose their father, Thranduil wouldn't have to watch her get old and die, and she wouldn't have to pound on the doors of the Halls of Mandos and demand visitation rights (which, seriously, she'd do. He would come to hate her in very short order.)

"I'd rather have the option," she said. "It's better than if he turns mortal. More people than just me need him – a lot more." Jesus, why did Azarael have to say anything? She knew he wasn't going to understand – he couldn't, just because he was what he was.

But still. Thranduil knew she was right. He'd been a king for thousands of years – he knew all about duty. While he might do something stupid to solve this damn problem, it wouldn't be this.

 _At least we'll have plenty of time to talk about it on the way_ , she thought, and sighed.

* * *

Katje felt absolutely awful. The Elves made her as comfortable as they could, but she was dying and she knew it.

She'd had a good run, at least, and spent nearly a year in an amazing world. True, it lacked some things she'd always taken for granted, but it had more than she had ever imagined. Her curse had actually been useful, and she'd been _free_.

She hadn't realized, back on Earth, just how confined she really was, bound by bills, and rent, and all the little societal expectations that could smother a person. In Middle-Earth, things were simpler – mostly because everything practical was so difficult to accomplish. Life couldn't be a rat-race.

If only she could get laid before she died.

That, really, was her only complaint. Everyone, even the humans, were so _prudish_. Katje had needs, dammit, and now she didn't even have any battery-operated assistance. The afterlife had better provide her with the best vibrator that ever was, and an eternal supply of batteries.

All in all, she'd rather resigned herself to the idea, and wasn't quite pleased when three people came bursting into her room.

Ratiri was no surprise; he'd been dosing her with everything he could think of, and while it didn't make her feel any better, she knew he needed to be doing something. The Elf she knew by sight, if not by name, but the third, with the terrifying ember-eyes, made her want to crawl under the bed. He wasn't an Elf, but he sure as hell wasn't a human, either – no living creature she'd ever heard of had eyes like that, that burned with the color and brilliance of fire. He smelled like lightning, like – well, like Sharley. There was a distinct resemblance there, in the shape of the face and height of the cheekbones. This must be her father.

Her father, who was _Death_. Well, at least this would probably be over in a hurry.

"Katje," Ratiri said, looking dangerously close to manic, "you're not going to die. Yet. Azarael here will steal your soul for a while, and give it back once we have a way to heal you. And me. And Lorna. You're the sickest one, though, so you definitely need this most."

Katje looked from him, to Sharley's father, to the tall Elf, who somehow managed to look both disturbed and slightly amused at the same time, which was a fairly neat trick.

"I must warn you," the man-who-must-be-Sharley's-father said, "this will hurt. But once it is over, you will not longer feel ill."

At this point, she'd let someone shank her in the kidney if it meant she'd stop feeling like this.

* * *

Galadriel really did not know what to make of this. These voices were like nothing she had ever encountered.

They were rarely silent, though thus far they only seldom addressed her directly. She didn't think they had been this talkative when they were still with Sharley, or she would have sensed it; perhaps they kept quiet when they were on guard, but there was little to guard against here.

The truly disconcerting thing was the fact that they moved – circling her, sometimes far ahead, sometimes right beside or even above her, swifter and more fluid than anything with legs could manage. Their ubiquitous presence explained a very great deal about Sharley.

She – they – now stood beside a great, rushing waterfall, away from prying eyes, the churning of the water rather soothing. Layla, the youngest, seemed to be darting about, exploring, while Kurt and Jimmy had decided to test how far they could stray from her. Only Sinsemilla remained, a presence Galadriel could sense beside her right shoulder.

"Tell me," she said, "do you read my mind, or are you simply tethered to me?"

 _"Tethered,"_ Sinsemilla said. _"We're guardians, not gods. Though there are times I've wished we were able to read our charge's minds. That's what you do, isn't it?"_ Strangely, there was a note of wariness in her voice – and almost a touch of hostility.

"You dislike that?" Galadriel asked.

 _"We haven't had good experiences with telepaths. Sharley was Von Ratched's prisoner once, sixty years ago. He was too much for us, though we tried."_

"I am not like the doctor," Galadriel said – though she could understand how someone might, on the surface of things, make that mistake. It was not truly minds she read, but hearts. In many ways, what went on in the heart was truer than what did in the head, for the heart could not lie, to itself or to others. People who felt or thought very strongly practically read themselves to her; it was an effort, and sometimes a great one, to block them out. The strength of her gift was occasionally a curse as well, and especially of late, being surrounded by such grief.

 _"No,"_ Sinsemilla said, _"you're not. You're not like anything I've ever seen, and I'm older than anyone but Azarael knows. This world, all of you in it – you're different. I thought I couldn't be surprised anymore."_

"I thought the same thing, before the arrival of the strangers," Galadriel said, a little dryly. "How old are you, Sinsemilla?"

The voice laughed a little. _"You can't tell anyone I told you this,"_ she said. _"Azarael's the only one who knows how old I am because I'm older than him. When the first spark of life happened on Earth, he came into being, but I was already there, waiting. His mind was as blank as a baby's, and I did for him what I've done for Sharley all her life. It's why he sent me to her."_

"And you have watched over her ever since."

 _"It's really what you do, though, isn't it? Except you've got a whole people to look after. At least Sharley's only one, though we try to keep an eye on Marty, whenever she'd outside the Swamp. Someday, Lady, if we all actually survive this, you should come to the Other, if you can. It's nothing like Middle-Earth, but it has a beauty of its own."_ She sounded…not quite wistful, but close. _"A very_ deadly _beauty, and harsh, but it's nevertheless there. It certainly makes me – all of us – appreciate your world more. I know Sharley would stay, if she could."_

"Why can she not?" Galadriel asked, pacing the gurgling length of the brook that ran from the base of the waterfall.

 _"None of us are supposed to be here – especially not her and Az and us. But I'm afraid – well. I shouldn't say, not yet. I'd rather not jinx it."_

"What does 'jinx' mean?"

 _"To say something and then have it come true because you said it. If you're lucky, once Lorna and Thranduil have dealt with Thorvald, we can go back to the Other. Until then, we'll let you know what we find, once we know how far we can go from you. With Sharley, it varies, but sometimes it's a few miles. Think of us as scouts you don't need to worry about getting shot."_

That sounded wonderful in theory, yet somehow, Galadriel was worried.

* * *

So, I've been trawling the 'Maidens and Mayhem in Middle Earth' community. All my _Ettelëa_ stories are posted here as well as AO3 – except for the first, they have literally half the number of reviews they've got on AO3, and I've come to the conclusion that Lorna must not be the type of character certain readers want to read about. Perhaps she's too old, or too profane, or not beautiful enough to want to relate to. I do know that in all my GiME fic reading, I've never run across another character in the same vein. It makes me cherish all my readers – there aren't a whole lot of you that comment, but I check the stats here. I know I've hooked more than a few of you, so thank you for sticking with my stories, and with Lorna, even though she's Lorna.

Title means "Anger" in Irish. As always, your reviews keep me going, and let me know if I'm going in the right direction or not.


	29. Ullmhóidí

In which Von Ratched is peeved, Legolas is not happy, and Lorna tries to learn Thranduil a thing.

* * *

Lorna knew full well that Von Ratched wasn't going to just cough up whatever it was they needed to kill Thorvald with, so she had Azarael come with her when she went to ask.

Instinct told her _not_ to bring Thranduil, so she sent him off to talk to Legolas. She didn't know why she thought so, but she had a feeling his presence would only make this more difficult, and her intuition had still rarely failed her. Given the number of dreams she'd had of the other timeline, it was probably safe to assume Von Ratched had a fair amount of them, too, and they would not have been pleasant. The horrific relationship, for lack of a better word, that they would have had in that timeline was something they'd dodged in this one, but she didn't want Thranduil knowing any more than he already did, and she didn't think Von Ratched would, either.

He wasn't in the forge, which was apparently a rarity; they found him at a table in the jewelry-making hall, painstakingly crafting a microscope. Lorna had always tried to avoid thinking about him, about who he was and what he'd done to her in another life – traveling, that had been difficult, since he so often rode near her and Thranduil, but ever since they'd got home, she'd successfully avoided him much of the time. Meeting him now was rather difficult, even with Azarael looming beside her. (And honestly, why were so many of the men in her life so bloody tall? A lot of them would dwarf anyone, but especially her.)

She looked at him now with an almost detached curiosity, studying him as a scientist might. He was intimidating as hell, and not just because of his height; there was an aura of tightly-coiled energy about him, so intense that prolonged exposure to his presence could be exhausting. Lorna knew he was some kind of genius, though she'd rarely had cause to see it here – only displays of his power, which, to her annoyance, he was undeniably better at controlling than she was.

How had he done what he did to her, in that other timeline, and _why_? Oh, she had a vague idea – he'd been obsessed with her curse, and with what he could do with it – but to her mind, that wasn't enough to justify raping and nearly murdering her. In this world, she would never bear the scars he would have left her with. And she wouldn't have to spend God knew how long traveling alone with him.

"Oi," she said, snapping her fingers to break his concentration, "we need whatever the hell it is I'm meant to kill Thorvald with. Marty says you can't go with us."

He looked up, and she was grudgingly impressed by his lack of overt reaction to Azarael. He paled, yes, and his eyes widened a fraction, but that was it. Bastard. "And you intend to listen to an undead child?" he asked.

"It is only wise," Azarael replied. "She says you are needed here."

"And who might you be?" Von Ratched asked, and in spite of everything, that familiar note of arrogance remained in his tone. Lorna wondered if it was possible to get rid of.

"Her grandfather," Azarael said, in the most neutral voice she had ever heard. She watched Von Ratched, waiting for the penny to drop.

Being Von Ratched, this took maybe half a second. He had, she knew, spent two years torturing Sharley in another institution, back when she'd been alive. The dreams of it hadn't gone into details, thank God – but since this was Von Ratched, they didn't really need to. And now he was faced with her father, whose true identity didn't need to be known for him to be creepy as fuck.

"Give us the scalpel, Von Ratched," she said, while he mentally digested that. "Nobody's going to kill you as soon as you've passed it off. Like I said, Marty says we need you, and nobody here knows how to make zombies."

"Yet," Azarael said blandly.

Lorna pinched the bridge of her nose. "Seriously, Azarael, stop helping me."

He said nothing, but when she looked up at him, she'd swear there was something very like amusement in his hellish eyes. Apparently not all Sharley's weirdness came from being crazy.

"Follow me," Von Ratched said, and while he didn't roll his eyes, she kind of had a feeling he wanted to.

* * *

Thranduil was semi irked that Lorna sent him off so firmly, but he really did need to speak to Legolas. His son would not be happy about once again being left in charge of the realm, but he was a capable prince, and a capable regent. He had his little council, odd though it was (Galion and Tauriel were not so surprising, but Marty? Truly?), as well as Galadriel and Elrond…and possibly Azarael. Thranduil didn't yet know if the avatar of Death intended to accompany him and Lorna, but he hoped not, despite how useful the being might be.

"I know," Legolas said, as soon as he saw his father. Perhaps unsurprisingly, he'd broken into the wine cupboard in Thranduil's study. "I had thought you must be leaving soon. Adar…I wish I could go with you." There was the faintest note of vulnerability in his voice, something only Thranduil would hear, and it grieved him. Legolas had never been one to sit idle, even when he ought to have; his instinct was to ride out and save the world. To stay behind, while his father went forth – each time must be more galling than the last.

"I would not leave you if I had any other choice," Thranduil said, though it was a lie. He didn't want Legolas anywhere _near_ what he and Lorna were to face, no matter that his son was more than capable of taking care of himself. "But I would have no other for regent. Galadriel and Elrond will look after their own people, and you have now your assistants, strange though they may be." He did not say that the task could well become permanent, should he and Lorna die in this attempt.

Legolas shook his head. He looked, in that moment, so very young, a vulnerability in his expression that he rarely betrayed, even to Thranduil. "Adar, if you do not come back from this alive, I am sending Azarael to the Halls of Mandos to drag you back," he warned. "Whether you are in one piece or not."

The truly disturbing thing was that Thranduil suspected Azarael might just do it. The only real evidence was occasional inflections in the being's voice, but he had a feeling Azarael had a sense of humor buried under all his layers of neutrality. "Then you need not worry," he said. "I have survived many battles, ionneg, and this is but one person. A very dangerous person, yes, but Lorna successfully killed him in the other timeline. Knowing that it can be done is a comfort to me, as it should be to you."

"It is," Legolas said, though now it was he that lied, and Thranduil knew it full well. There was, however, no true reassurance he could give. This journey might easily prove fatal, and there was no glossing over that fact. "Now I need a drink, and I do not wish to drink alone."

* * *

Sauron was rather disappointed by the Elsewhere.

It was even worse than what he had seen of the Other in the Mother's mind: land and sky were black and featureless, more barren than any waste his former master had created. What lived upon it – so to speak – might be far more interesting.

There were more of those ugly grey buildings – many more, in a walled-off fortress much more impressive than the Mother's somewhat pathetic collection in Ennor. That had merely been a staging-ground, he realized – the ramp along which she would have launched her true invasion.

How glorious it would have been.

Sharley's Memories spread out, silent in the blistering air, so dry it would parch a mortal thing in little time at all. Whence it came, along with the light, he didn't know; there was no sun here, nor clouds, nor even the faintest hint of a breeze.

Though the Mother was dead, the Stranger remained wary as it walked beside him.

"She will have set traps," it said, scanning the fortress's pale outer wall. "Her mother did. She is of the sort who would rather take everyone with them if they die."

 _That_ he could understand. "What is it we seek here?"

The Stranger looked at him. " _We_ seek nothing," it said, and pointed at the Memories. " _They_ seek food."

* * *

Von Ratched was actually somewhat irate that he couldn't hunt down Thorvald, because he was extremely curious about the man. No, he had no wish to travel for weeks on end with Lorna and Thranduil, but he wanted a chance to meet his ancestor before killing him.

He refused to bring Lorna and Sharley's disturbing father to his rooms, though he had no doubt the latter could find them anyway. He had forged three swords from the bits of the scalpel, but, though one was shorter than the others, it was still too long for the ridiculously tiny Lorna. If they had time, it ought to be re-forged, or she was going to have difficulty with it – if she even knew how to use it at all, which he questioned. He suspected she was mostly reliant on her telekinesis, which was not enough on its own against someone who really knew what they were doing with it. There wasn't time to teach her the level of control she would need to go up against someone like Thorvald, who would certainly have as great an amount of precision as Von Ratched himself.

He pulled the leather-wrapped bundle out from behind his wardrobe, unrolling it on his bed. The swords were new and clean and very sharp, but he'd put little in the way of decoration to them: the hilts were mostly plain, with only a faint etching of spirals done on the long, cold winter nights. They had best be enough.

Lorna and Thranduil were so disgustingly co-dependent that Von Ratched doubted it had occurred to either one of them that they were throwing the latter at someone who could kill him in literally a heartbeat. Lorna had some defense against another's telekinesis, but Thranduil had none. He should not be going on this little venture, but Von Ratched was quite convinced there would be no stopping him.

 _A plague on the stiff necks of the Elves_ , he thought sourly. Well. There was nothing for it. He hoped they were not all about to die.

* * *

The telekinesis issue had in fact occurred to Lorna, who had been pondering just what to do about it even while she packed. She and Thranduil had already proved that Elven magic really wasn't compatible with the curses of Earth, and even if it had been, she had no way of putting any kind of…of _immunity_ on him. If only this was the sort of magic done with spells, rather than – well, whatever the hell actually caused it. She didn't know what, and she highly doubted that anyone else did.

The safest thing would be to leave him behind, but she'd have to put him into a bloody coma to actually make _that_ happen. Even if she could find a way to do it, he'd never forgive her, and she couldn't blame him. But neither was she going to let him die – not if there was anything at all she could do about it.

Her hands, occupied with a roll of spare socks, paused. The curses were not compatible with his magic, no, but the pair of them were connected at the brain. She couldn't give Thranduil telekinesis, but maybe she could teach him to use _hers._

She stuffed the socks in her pack, mind churning furiously. If there were words that could explain how it worked, she didn't know them, but she didn't need to: he could feel her will for himself, and experience what it was to use her curse by proxy.

Shoving the pack aside, she gathered a number of small objects from around the room: books, wine decanters (naturally), an odd green vase that usually held quills, and a stray slipper (she never had found the other one). She laid them all out on the bed in a line, in no particular order, bouncing on the balls of her stocking feet. When Thranduil returned, she had a lesson for him.

Thranduil wasn't drunk when he reached his room, but he certainly couldn't be called sober, either. Given that this was to be one of the last nights they would spend in relative comfort, he had a vague plan to seduce his wife – which was entirely dashed when he walked through the door, and found the assortment of things that covered the bed. Lorna herself sat in an armchair beside the fire, her legs tucked under her in a manner strongly reminiscent of a cat, brushing out her hair.

"Lorna," he said, "do I even want to know?"

She looked up at him and grinned – an expression that made him wonder, vaguely, if he ought to be nervous. "I'm going to teach you," she said, hopping to her feet. A slight stagger told him she'd likely been at the wine, too.

"I wish I had not asked," he said dryly, until she explained her objective. The truly worrisome part was that it actually made sense. "Do you not remember what happened the last time I touched your mind so completely?" He didn't think he was ever going to forgive himself for it, for all he'd been terribly compromised by Von Ratched beforehand.

Lorna winced, very slightly. "Different circumstances," she said, which was possibly the most diplomatic way to put it. "I'm letting you in now. Hell, I'm inviting you. I don't see any reason why this shouldn't work."

She might well be right. Their time on the road to Gondor (more specifically, some of the things they'd been up to in their tent, that made the others so amusingly awkward the next day) had taught him that it was entirely possible for them to truly share minds without triggering any madness within his. That did not, however, mean he could actually use the other facet of her curse. "Will it hurt you, should we succeed?" he asked, as she crossed the floor to him. "Surely your ability was not meant to be shared between two people."

"I don't think so," she said, grabbing him by the hand and leading him to the bed. "That's what we're about to find out. I don't have any way at all of explaining telekinesis to you – honestly, I don't think there is one – so you're going to sort'v…piggyback onto my mind, and see what it feels like when it's used."

She guided him to face the bed, and stood in front of him, her shoulders against his ribs. Yes, she smelled a little like wine, along with the habitual lavender and fir, her tiny right hand warm when she laced her fingers through his.

He looked down at the crown of her head, the silver in her hair so bright against the black. It hadn't advanced, for she couldn't age right now, but he feared the day Sharley removed her block – the day Time would flow for Lorna once more. A fragment of a song rose in his mind, something he'd taken from Lorna's: _shorter of breath, and one day closer to death._

Her pointy elbow dug into his stomach. "Focus," she said. "Let's make sure we survive Thorvald, before you start brooding about my damn mortality again."

"I do not _brood_ ," he said, insulted.

Lorna tilted her head back to look up at him, arching an eyebrow. "Seriously? Thranduil, allanah, you could out-brood Hamlet, but what do we say to the God of Death? 'Not today'."

He didn't snort, but it was a near thing. Earth produced some rather odd, if compelling, entertainment. "Very well. I am focusing."

"No, you're not, but we'll fix that." She brought his hand up with hers, and bit the knuckle of his index finger. Hard.

Thranduil didn't jerk his hand away, but it was a near thing. "What—?" he started.

" _Now_ I've got your attention," she said, laughter in her voice. "Get this right and I'll shag you later."

"And if I get it wrong?" he asked, glowering down at her hair.

"Then I'll bite you again. And not in the fun way."

Thranduil didn't sigh, but it was a near thing. "Very well. Show me." She'd pay for that later. Somehow.

Feeling her take control of his mind was quite odd – yes, he was consciously granting her permission, but ceding such control to her felt beyond strange. He knew already that he could feel what she did, if they so chose, but he had never really paused to wonder what using her telekinesis would feel like.

"See through my eyes," she said. "That way you'll know what I'm looking at."

Thranduil had been blind in one eye for so long that binocular vision came as a shock. Though keen for an Edain, Lorna's could not match that of an Elf – but she saw something he could not. When focused properly, her eyes traced faint lines, curled around each object. They were translucent, so fine as to barely be visible, shifting and eddying as if in a breeze, light as spider-silk.

"All right," she said, "this is easiest if you use your hands, so we'll start that way, but on the trip north, I want you to practice without them. It's better if whoever you're using it against doesn't know it's coming. I'm going to grab the book – memorize what it feels like." She held out their linked hands, and he had no words at all to describe the sensation that flowed up his arm. It was… _warm_ , but more than warm, and _alive_. It was energy such as he had never known it, tingling along his nerves.

Nor could he articulate the power that tugged at the threads, raising the heavy volume. The effort was slight, but he could feel the well that it drew from, somewhere within Lorna's fëa. Thranduil had known his wife's power was considerable, but he hadn't realized the depth of it, and he wondered if she had yet, either.

She – and he – drew the book toward them, and she let it drop into his hand. "Okay, now the vase," she said, while he set it aside. "I'm not shagging you until you've worked out how to do this yourself."

"You do know how to give an apprentice impetus," he said dryly. "Very well, Dilthen Ettelëa. Let us try again."

* * *

Thranduil's going to need that ability. The only reason Lorna and Von Ratched both survived Thorvald was because they could telekinetically tag-team him. (And even then, Von Ratched would have died if Lorna hadn't saved him – which she really didn't want to do, but they were going to need him later.)

'A plague on the stiff necks of the Elves' is said by Aragorn in _The Fellowship of the Ring._ 'Ennor' is what the Elves call Middle-Earth. (They also call it 'Endor', but yeah, I can't use that without laughing.)

Title means "Preparations" in Irish. As ever, your reviews feed my brain. Om nom nom.


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